


Dog Dates and Fail-Safes

by scratches



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Awkward Romance, DARCY IS THE BEST, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Misunderstandings, Some sort of AU, brock is the best, bucky has unresolved blood lust for hydra, dog sitting, except Helmut Zemo, fat ass woofer, maybe i'll add more tags?, no joke, taserbones, we needed a villian, wilbur rumlow, wilbur the dog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25140535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scratches/pseuds/scratches
Summary: Brock is 99% positive that Darcy Lewis hates him.  So why is she pet sitting last minute for him?  Will Wilbur be safe in her hands?
Relationships: Darcy Lewis/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 302
Kudos: 337





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I need something light hearted and not p0rn. so here you go!

“If you are here, who exactly is watching my dog?” Brock stares at Cameron Klein as he takes a seat at the computer console. His voice is gruff and irate, the prep for this mission had dragged on for weeks and he just wanted to get it over and done with. Cameron was his go-to guy for pet sitting when they weren’t on the same OP. Which they weren’t, thirty seconds ago.

Cameron shifts his eyes from Brock over to Natasha, Steve, and finally to Sharon Carter. He runs a hand through his dark curls and looks guilty. “Hill called me at the last minute.” He sounds legitimately upset that he is at the computer on this particular jet. 

Brock pulls out his Sig and checks the ammo count before looking back at Cameron. “Who is watching Wilbur?” 

Sharon ducks her head to hide a snort. Everyone laughed at his dog’s name. Brock hated it when people laughed at Wilbur. He couldn’t help that the people before him over fed the dog. Labradors were prone to obesity. He was _working_ on it. Raw food. Lots of protein. Easy walks until his weight was down low enough so they could jog with one another.

Natasha reaches over Cameron’s head and pushes a button on the computer. “We handled it, Rumlow.”

His jaw tightens and his teeth grind as he watches Cameron turn his back and click across the keyboard to pull up a personnel file. “Wilbur has a strict schedule, you know this.” Brock sits heavily in one of the canvas seats and watches as a smile curls on Carter and Romanov’s faces. 

“He’s in good hands,” Rogers says next to him.

“Who the _fuck_ is it then?” He shakes his head. SHIELD personnel. No one in the Navy would do this to him. 

Moving to the side, Cameron reveals the monitor. On it is a photo of a young dark haired woman who looked vaguely familiar. As he leans forward and reads over the page, he backs up and straightens his spine. “Lewis?” Brock sputters. “Darcy-fucking-Lewis?” He can feel the heat moving up from his neck to his face. “You know she hates me, right?” Brock chews on his tongue.

“ _I_ didn’t give her the key to your apartment or anything,” Cameron says before he clicks off of her file.

Sharon slaps Brock on the shoulder, “Yeah, he just handed the dog off with a detailed list of your instructions and some food.”

Turning and looking at her, Brock asks, “And how do you know this?”

Happily, Sharon replies, “I gave him the recommendation.”

“After we checked with Thor that their team was stateside and actually in D.C.,” Steve says just as happily.

“She loves animals.” Natasha pulls out her phone and swipes around it a few times before shoving it under his nose. “See, Wilbur is happy as a clam.”

On the phone is a photo of his dog and Darcy Lewis. It looks like they are at one of the many parks around D.C.. Wilbur is panting, his eyes closed and tongue lolling out happily. Lewis is holding Wilbur’s golden face in one hand making his wrinkles extra comical as she kisses the side of his head. Natasha swipes across the photo and another picture takes over the screen. It is Lewis feeding him a puppucino at Starbucks. Brock chokes. “She is going to ruin all of the hard work Wilbur has done.”

“Relax,” Rogers claps his other shoulder and continues, “It’s like going on vacation for him. Let him live a little.”

Crossing his arms, Brock leans back and shakes his head unhappily, “None of this makes me feel any better.”

~~

When they finally land back at HQ, Brock is tired, dirty, upset, and ready to go home. Everyone is reaching for their gear when Natasha leans a hip next to him and shoves her phone under his nose again. “Look how happy they are,” she says sweetly. 

While they were gone for the week, it looks like Lewis had sent updates about her and Wilbur’s adventures. “You gave her keys to your Maserati?” Brock asks incredulously as he continues to flip through the text message photos.

Natasha smirks and says, “Well, she wasn’t going to walk around D.C. to get to the best brunch spots.”

Over her shoulder, Steve adds, “Or go by Thor’s hammer.” He leans back and laughs heartily, “That would make one hell-uva impression at some of those tight ass places.”

He hands the phone back to Natasha and shakes his head, “There’s seven photos of her feeding him food not on his plan.” Brock grabs his bag and hauls it out of it’s locker. “She dressed him up like a banana split.” He throws the heavy bag over his shoulder and continues, “That’s not good for his self esteem.”

Carter pushes past him and he can hear the roll of her eyes, “She was dressed up as a spoon for Halloween to go Trick-or-Treating at all of the pet stores in town.” That didn’t make it any better. Her costume didn’t hide any of the curves Lewis mocked him about. She caught him staring once, and it didn’t make her disdain for him any lighter. 

Hours later, Brock is finally outside of his house. He hears Wilbur’s nails scraping on the wood before he even gets the key in the door. “Hey buddy,” Brock leans down after opening the door to rub his heavy head. Minus the fact that he was supposedly scheduled to pick up his dog _tomorrow_ , Brock is happily surprised. 

“Uh,” he hears from the edge of the living room. 

In a flash, he has his weapon out and trained on the woman standing there with a tube of Wilbur’s food in her hand. “How the fuck are you in here?” Brock holds his gun with one hand and pulls Wilbur by the collar back into the house. The labrador happily makes his way back to the woman only to sit at her feet and look up at her adoringly. What a traitor. He slowly drops his trained gun and Lewis doesn’t say anything. Slowly he asks, “What are you doing in my house?”

She shakes out of it then and a laugh escapes her. “Cam didn’t tell you?”

Brock reaches behind him and pulls his heavy front door until it closes with a _thunk_. “That you were watching my dog, yeah.”

He watches without humor as she starts to laugh. “I told him you wouldn’t be o-kay with me watching your dog.” Lewis snorts. Brock didn’t understand why she thought it was so funny. He says so. “I can’t afford a hotel in D.C.,” she makes _pft_ noise, “nevermind Alexandria.” 

He finally looks around and notices the open can of cola on his coffee table. Next to it is an empty take-out container that, now that he takes a second, held broccoli beef from his favorite Chinese restaurant in town. Across from his door with all of his shoes, a pair of black athletic shoes intermingle with his. There’s a pair of deep red stilettos there too, one has it’s heel stuck inside his favorite pair of running shoes. On the couch a sweater is thrown over the back. The blanket his mother had knitted him ten years ago was in a nest on the cushions. It all clicks as she moves her hand to pet Wilbur’s head. “You’ve been staying _here_?”

“I told Cam, Sharon, and Natasha that we should have told you.” Lewis shrugs and moves to the cutting board. “Steve was all for you knowing right before you left for the mission,” she grabs a knife and opens the end of the tube. “He’s a troll, dude.” The young woman nodded her head before grabbing Wilbur’s bowl and putting it on his nutrition scale. 

“You’re actually weighing his food?” Brock stands there stunned. That was the last thing that he thought she would actually do after he saw the photos of his dog and the puppuchinos. 

She looks at him and rolls her eyes. “We might have had a few snacks, but I took him to the Labrador meet-up groups so he could play with other dogs to off set them.” Brock finally drops and holsters the SIG and watches her take a fork to mash everything around the bowl, just like the instructions he left for Klien said to do. “Which, he’s expected to continue to be a part of when you can make it,” Lewis is smiling over her shoulder, red lips bright and wide, “The mom’s were _really_ happy to find out that his actual owner was an eligible man,” she looked him down and back up, “some would even say handsome.”

Brock didn’t know what to say in reply. He only watches as she turns and moves to the bench he had made for Wilbur’s food bowls. Lewis has Wilbur sit and shake her hand before she places the bowl into place so he can have dinner. Finally, Brock settles with “Where’s the Maserati?” 

Lewis moves back to the raw food and pulls a Pyrex dish out from his cupboards. “Oh, some dude named Clint came to grab it earlier?” She shrugs and puts the food into the container and then into the fridge. “I can have Natasha come grab me if me staying here is really that big of a deal.”

“No one told me you were going to be staying in my house,” he repeats.

“Natasha will come get me, let me text her.” The sink turns on so she can wash the fork. “Sorry you didn’t know,” she waves the wet sponge in his direction, “but for the record I wanted you to know.” He watches as she drops the fork, wet, into the drawer. “Like, I know how much you dislike me.”


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past is just one big misunderstanding.
> 
> The present they can agree on one thing at least: Wilbur is the best boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coulson Lives in this AU!  
> ugh love clark gregg

THEN:

Brock catches himself as he stares at the woman who is twenty years younger than him. She bends over the picnic table to point at the folder in front of Agent Coulson. Coulson is looking at her wryly as she explains whatever is on the paper with big sweeping arm motions. He moves his eyes away from the silhouette her round ass makes and around the group of people at the base. 

SHIELD called the two women to the underground base where Erik Selvig had been recruited to work with the tesseract. Even at the break of dawn it is stifling hot in the middle of summer. The buckled landscape didn't help to cover them with shade. Brock remembers there once was a smoking pit covered by latillas. It had been a good place to avoid the sun while getting his nicotine fix before he quit. Coulson even hung his coat up earlier.

Brock wipes at his forehead with a black handkerchief before his eyes fall on her again. This time she stares back, her eyes thin angry slits. Brock still doesn't know what he did to upset her. Fuck, he thinks, she is the one who kicked HIM...accidentally, but, he had to go to medical! His testicles were _bruised_ for a week. 

"Wouldn't want to be on the other end of that look," Sharon Carter says. She braces herself against the side of the blacked out SUV and looks at him. Brock stares back unamused. "You're the only one she isn't sunshine and bubbles with, you know, right?"

Wiping around his neck, Brock says, "She's the one who kicked me in the nuts."

"You grabbed and tossed her over your shoulder." Sharon gives him the side eye.

He turns to put Coulson and Lewis to his back. "She didn't believe I was a SHIELD agent."

Sharon prods Brock with a sharp lethal nail before he meets Sharon's death glare and she says, "You threw her over your shoulder after handcuffing her."

"It was an intergalactic emergency." Brock throws his hands up and backs away from her towards a pile of rubble that once was a security gate. His chances of avoiding the irate scientists and a protective Carter were better over there. Heavy lifting is something he is good at. Plus, there isn't a gym in a seventy mile radius of the base, he could do with the exercise.

Days later he is sitting at a bench near a taco truck somewhere near the outskirts of Las Cruces when loud thumping music reaches his ears. It isn't uncommon in these parts so Brock pays it no mind. How many times will he be distracted by a gorgeous iridescently painted lowrider with white-wall tires and chromed bumpers? Infinite amount of times. The car culture in New Mexico was always interesting, even when he was hunting human traffickers and drug lords. 

His al pastor taco is dripping green salsa around his fingers when Lewis' unmistakable voice travels across the gravel parking lot. This is the secret SHIELD taco spot. Brock listens as she orders a few tacos, a torta, and a basket of nachos. Her spanish is clear between yelling back and forth to Jane who must still be in the vehicle. 

They are scheduled to go back into the desert tonight to take more readings and it sounds like they were getting their night snacks. Brock can't blame them, this truck had never let any agent down. He hears Jane turn down the thumping tejano music to remind Darcy to order multiple drinks just as a text comes through his phone from Coulson.

Reading it, he sighs. Wrong place, right time, he guesses. Brock updates Coulson with what the two women are doing behind him. Brock thinks that they haven't noticed him, but he is proven wrong when a crumpled brown bag drops on the table beside him.

"A tail, really?" Lewis' irate voice says.

"Just having lunch," Brock says around the taco. 

"Pretty far for lunch, Agent." Lewis sits on the bench backwards next to him. 

Brock tries to ignore her and enjoy the last bites of his meal. "Commander, actually."

"Whoa-ho, sorry, Commander." Lewis mocks. He slides his eyes and watches her glare at him. "If you're going to follow us this time, turn your car off, we haven't calibrated our equipment to another vehicle’s E.M.F.s."

"Not a tail," Brock reaffirms. 

"That's what they all say." He watches as her blue eyes roll heavily. "If we were going to spill state secrets we would have done it by now, you know that right? We don’t deserve this kind of sneaky shady treatment."

Brock puts his taco down and turns to face her, his shoulders tense. "First, it's world secrets, maybe even interplanetary at this point. SHIELD is part of world security." He holds his hand up and starts ticking off his fingers. "Second, I am not your tail. Not now, hopefully not ever." A third finger goes down, "My team and I only picked you and Foster up because we were passing over, we don't do personnel requisitions." A fourth finger drops, "I am here to have lunch. Not here to get grilled by a college student." His thumb tucks in, "Last, I don't care what you do. You are no longer my responsibility after you checked into Coulson's command."

Lewis's jaw clenches. She settles with, "Because of SHIELD we are no longer part of the Culver family," she stands and grabs the bag of delicious smelling tacos, "fuck-you-very-much."

As their rattling Pinz tears down the highway, Brock sends a message to Coulson to inform their tail they need to shut off all electronics while at their post because it interferes with their readings. Coulson doesn't reply, only leaves it read.

~~

NOW:

Brock watches as Lewis putters around his home and picks up the pieces that show that she stayed there for the last week. He is perched at his kitchen island, a cold beer in hand and Wilbur next to him. The large dog has his head on Brock's thigh and looks up with pleading eyes. He doesn't want his new friend to leave, no doubt missing the puppuchino's already. Wilbur's tail thumps lightly on the floor when Brock reaches down to rub at his thick neck. 

"You can leave it on," Brock says as Darcy reaches for the remote control to turn off the Nicholas Cage movie playing on it. Was it Vampire's Kiss? He doesn't know anyone under thirty who has seen it. It's one of those terrible kitchy movies that only Cage could get away with being a part of.

"Alright." She places the remote back onto the coffee table before she folds the knitted blanket and drapes it on the arm of the couch.

Her admission that she thought Brock disliked _her_ had him pause. With his long pause she had gone and texted Natasha to pick her up. Lewis had already went to the spare bedroom to pack her things. Brock didn't say a word. He didn't know what to say to help her. What did you say to someone who he didn't actually _know_ who stayed in his home for a week?

"You don't have to clean anything else up, I can get the rest." Brock waves to the slightly misplaced things around the living room and kitchen. The bathroom is still a mystery to him. 

"Do you want me to strip the bed or something?" Lewis pauses in the dim room next to his couch. "I was going to wash the linens in the morning before I left."

"I got it." Brock takes a deep drink from the sweating glass bottle. "You've…" he grasps Wilbur's neck and rubs him gently, "you've been a great help already."

They look down at the dog as he gives a muffled woof before his tail wacks against the tile harder. "You're welcome." 

"No, really," Brock looks at her intently, "I was upset with the situation, but I know you went above and beyond." His bottle clinks against the stone counter as he puts it down. "The only reason Klein didn't board him was because they were booked. He called them before the…" Brock looks for words that aren't thinly veiled insults, "idea that you could pinch hit for him arose."

Lewis crosses her arms across her chest, black t-shirt stretching. "Well, I mean, it isn't like I didn't _enjoy_ it." She looks back down at the grinning Labrador. "Somehow you ended up with a well adjusted dog," her hand waves at them, "I mean, he's a chonker, but he's really well behaved." She pulls her phone out and looks at it, "Natasha's outside, but really, even though we don't get on very well, if you ever need help with Wilbur, Cam or Natasha or… you know everyone else can get a hold of me. He's a change of pace from feeding and bathing a tiny scientist." 

They stare at one another until Brock nods, "Yeah, I'll keep that in mind."

She crouches down and snaps her fingers. Wilbur, the traitor, turns and waddles into her arms. His happy tail moves fast as she says her goodbyes to him. With one last rub to his thick skull, Lewis stands and grabs the luggage next to her. "I'm serious, Rumlow, he's a good boy."

Brock snorts, "He's the best boy," slips out with a twist to his lips. 

"Yup," she agrees and walks to the door.

"Thank you, really," Brock finally has the courage to say as she twists the door knob. 

She looks over her shoulder and nods before opening the door and moving to Natasha's orange Bugatti.

Show off.


	3. Part 3

NOW

The meet-up group is a surprise for Brock. A group of fifteen Labradors and their humans take over the green patio area at a cafe in Manassas three times a week. Explaining to Hill that he needed a Thursday morning off to bring his dog to a play date group had been interesting. She laughed at him and sent him on his way, approving the time off.

He is standing on the patio pavers with a tennis ball in his hand, two young, sleek, black Labradors baying in front of him. Wilbur is rolling in the dirt under a red maple, ignoring Brock. Winding up, Brock throws the ball and hits the back fence. The two dogs run after it and jump to catch it after it bounces off the wood fence. 

"We can never hit the back fence," a light voice says next to him. 

A light breeze ruffles Brock's hair as he turns to look at the woman. She is medium height, blonde curls, and gym toned, around his age. She is balancing herself in chunky wedge heels and drinking an iced tea through a stainless steel straw. "I played baseball for a while," Brock says as a grey muzzled chocolate lab drops a rope at his feet to throw. Giving in, he reaches down to pick it up and he flings it far into the yard. The older dog tears after his toy happily.

"Your girlfriend was really nice, she told us all about the schedule you have for Wilbur." Brock turns and looks at her. She has her phone in one hand and she is clacking across it with a pink pointed fingernail. "I just give in every time with Daisy, you know? I can't say no to her." She tilts her head towards an overweight black lab playing tug of war with another woman. "The vet told me I have to stop or… you know, she might get heart disease or arthritis."

Correcting her, Brock says, "Darcy was doing me a favor, watching Wilbur while I was out of town, she's not my girlfriend."

She looks up from her phone and smiles, "Well, she was wonderful to meet." The woman takes another sip of tea. "We are really glad Wilbur could come back."

The two young Labradors sit back at his feet and pant, the male dog drops the ball. It rolls and stops at the toe of his sneakers. "Yeah, it's different from our usual walks." Brock bends down and grabs the slobbered ball at his feet. "You could try to switch up Daisy's food." The ball bounces off the back fence again. "Wilbur eats raw food and he lost seven pounds with just the diet change."

The woman hums and nods, "I'll have to look into it."

The breeze gets stronger and Brock feels a few small rain drops hit his bare arms. "Yeah, if it's just an overeating thing and not a genetic thing, there's a lot of articles about the benefits." Brock's nods at her and looks at the grey sky, "But looks like the weather came early. Best get going, drying a boy Wilbur's size isn't any fun."

She laughs and agrees, "Daisy takes forever to dry off."

Brock calls Wilbur over and with a bark, he makes his way to Brock waddling with happiness. "We'll try to come back, I have a hectic work schedule, but Wilbur is having a good time."

They make their goodbyes and he boosts Wilbur into the backseat of his Jeep. Wilbur puts his heavy head on Brock's shoulder as he pulls out of the Cafe's parking lot. "Yeah buddy, I know." His cold nose nuzzles into his neck and after shifting into third gear, he reaches back and pats the side of his face. "We'll go back to see your friends soon."

THEN

"I thought you didn't do personnel requisitions," Lewis sasses at him.

"Believe me, this is the last thing I want to be doing." Brock clicks the directional on the SUV and they make a left turn. 

He can feel her eyes on him as he continues straight on the road, passing industrial park after industrial park. Her hand reaches out to turn the radio up. It is a news channel talking about Thor and the battle waged in Greenwich. "Why are you doing it then, Commander?" Lewis settles back into her seat. Brock watches her turn her head away from him and stare at the grey buildings.

Brock flexes his fingers on the wheel and makes another left hand turn. "Coulson asked me to supervise the SHIELD command while him, Hill, and Fury work on something else."

The woman's voice on the radio drones on. "But you're a commando dude, dude." Lewis sighs and props her head into her hand.

"I'm coming off of an ankle injury." 

"Did your bones get brittle with your old age or something," she snarks.

"Ha. Ha. Laugh it up. Being a field operative takes a toll on you, I've been doing this for twenty years." Lewis hums and they fall into silence. 

Brock eventually pulls into one of the industrial parks that houses a SHIELD base. The windshield wipers swish against the glass and squeak on their way down. Cutting the ignition, Lewis asks, "If you're the boss, why did you pick me up? There has to be some baby agent that could have interrupted me while I drank coffee."

Brock turns and looks at her, she is still staring out at the grey landscape. "I know how hard you kick, they don't." Unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door, Brock reaches for his coffee and closes the door. He waits for Lewis to exit before he locks the SUV and walks towards the base. She doesn't say anything in turn, only sips at her own coffee. Brock misses the hurt look on her face.

~~

NOW

Brock opens the door to his house and looks for Wilbur. He usually greets Brock at the door, but today must be one of the off days where he just wants to lay on Brock's bed or the couch. He drops his gym bag and keys next before grabbing a cold beer from the fridge. 

As he peeks into different rooms, he finally finds Wilbur. The dog is in the laundry room, the clothes hamper spilled next to him and he has a bright purple sock in his mouth. He looks up with pleading eyes and his tail thumps on the throw rug. 

He places his beer on top of the washer and asks, "What did you do, Wilbur?" Brock sighs before righting the hamper and stuffing his clothing back into the basket. Shaking his head, he reaches down and asks, "What do you have now?" 

Wilbur clenches his teeth a little harder as Brock tries to pull the sock out of his mouth. "Really?" He stands back up and stares down at his dog with his hands on his hips. "You're going to be like that?" The dog's thick tail thumps harder against the rug. "Drop it, Wilbur."

He whines before ambling to his feet and dropping the wet purple sock on Brock's boots. He sits back on his haunches and looks sadly up at Brock. "Really?" Brock picks up the small sock. Luckily he found a dry spot. He holds it up to inspect it. The sock must be Lewis'. It is small, neon purple and inside out. 

The last time a woman had been to his house was his mother for his birthday...six months ago. She also only wore hose with her dresses and house shoes while lounging around. It has been a year or more since a woman had shared _his_ bed. Thankfully, the two women he slept with had insisted he go to their houses after dinner. They didn't bat an eye when he told them he had to leave to take care of his dog. Sleep overs are a thing of the past now that Wilbur is part of his life. People who don't understand the bond between man and man's best friend could just keep walking. More than one had.

"Why do you do this to me?" Brock questions the dog. Wilbur's butt wiggles as he moves closer to Brock. "You're lucky you're a handsome boy." 

He tosses the sock into the basket and grabs his beer. He'll wash it tonight and try to get in touch with her tomorrow. There is dinner and a walk in their future, and dealing with Lewis… he just can't, not after the day of briefings he had.

~~

Upstate New York

Jane passes Darcy the bottle of wine and asks, "So it wasn't terrible?"

She swigs heavily from the bottle and buries herself into the couch. "If he wasn't such a dick, he'd probably be a really cool guy."

Jane watches as Darcy takes another long swallow from the bottle. "Do you think maybe you got off on the wrong foot?"

Darcy rolls her eyes, "He handcuffed me." Darcy offers Jane the bottle.

She takes it and says, "You ignored his badge… and the email from Coulson saying they needed us back stateside and that agents would be picking us up."

"He threw me over his shoulder Jane." 

Jane shrugs and takes a swing of the wine. "You didn't believe he was SHIELD until you saw me walk out with..what was his name? Roald? Collins?"

"Agent Rollins." Darcy closed her eyes and pulled her blanket up to her chin. "Rumlow never even let me apologize for kicking him. I felt terrible."

"I know, I know," Jane laughs, "For weeks it is all you could talk about, how bad you felt about inflicting pain on his family jewels."

"He didn't even _flinch_." She grabbed the bottle from Jane, "Who doesn't flinch when they get kicked in the nads?" Darcy took a sip. "Sharon told me he ended up in medical. He just…I never get the chance to apologize."

Jane grabs a pretzel, "The both of you are kind of...bristly with one another."

"He mocked my turtleneck." Darcy took another sad sip.

Jane snorted, "Yeah, I don't think he was mocking you."

"He was _staring_ , Jane." Another sip down the hatch. "Staring and shaking his head."

Around her pretzel, Jane asks, "And do you remember what you said after?"

Her eyes roll again, "Yeah, of course I do. I feel guilty about that too."

"Well, you didn't see his face after you told him he'd be lucky to see what you had under that shirt." Jane takes the bottle to wash down the pretzel. "He looked like he wanted to say something but didn't know the words and you stomped off before he could say anything."

"Can we go back to Science!Jane and not Interpersonal-Relationship!Jane?" Darcy moans and pulls the blanket completely over her head. It is muffled but Jane hears her say, "I creeped around his house and I'm disgusted with how much we have in common."

"And he has a good dog."

She whips the blanket down and agrees, " _And_ he has a good dog. Men like that don't have chonky Labradors on a diet. They have Rottweilers or German Shepards…or comical Chihuahuas or French Bulldogs."

"Maybe we _can_ research this." Jane puts her metaphorical thinking cap on and asks, "Do you think Reddit has this information? Maybe we can put a poll up on Reddit on the GymRat or Military Men subreddits."

"This is why I love you," Darcy takes the bottle to finish it, "you can turn _anything_ into science with the right motivation."

Jane smirks, "I didn't get two Doctorates sitting on my ass, you know."

Darcy takes a pillow and hits Jane with it. "I take it back. I only tolerate you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the chapter count keeps getting higher. I don't know what I'm doing


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot moves forward

THEN

The ever present _sweep squeak_ of the wipers of his SUV are white noise to him. A month in dreary England with his ankle in a brace is finally wearing on him. He has a sallow complexion, his eyes have dark rings under them, he's lost four pounds of muscle mass with the ankle injury, he can't get a decent slice of pizza, but most of all, he misses his dog. His mother sends him daily text and email updates for Wilbur but it just _isn’t_ the same. Brock misses the weight of him while watching Muy Thai fights on the couch. He misses eating dinner with him. He misses taking their walks first thing in the morning and when he gets home at night.

He misses not being leveled with withering looks from Lewis and that guy Barnaby. They were one of the worst parts of his appointment to the facility. Brock exhales a stream of smoke out of the half open window before rolling the wheel and pulling into his reserved spot. He lets the motor run as he finishes his cigarette.

The facility has finally started to wrap up and he watches a few Agents leave the building at the end of their shift. Behind them, he sees the familiar shapes of Thor, Foster, Lewis, and Barnaby. Thor has his hammer held high and the other three are laughing as they make their way to the parking lot. He knows they are staying with Foster's mom on the opposite side of the city and he is genuinely surprised they've been coming to the facility daily to help with the theories behind the convergence. He exhales again, the timing terrible, as all four of them pass by. 

Lewis glares at him icily before flipping him the bird. 

Brock makes a vow to himself that he would quit smoking for the fourth time, then and there.

NOW

Brock stares at Wilbur. Wilbur stares back with his tongue lolling out to the side. Brock crosses his arms, Wilbur's tail swishes against the kitchen floor. He turns his head to level an unamused look at Sharon. She laughs as she wipes up her spilled vanilla bean frappuccino.

"Lewis spoiled him," Brock says. Wilbur barks happily before licking the rest of the frappuccino off of his lips.

Sharon laughs harder, " _Darcy_ only let him have a half serving, you know."

"That isn't reassuring, Sharon." Brock points at Wilbur and tells him to go to bed. With a happy wag, the dog settles into his bed and stares adoringly at the two of them. “He’s addicted to sugar again. I can see it in his eyes.” He motions to his dog, “He’s licking his chops thinking about cleaning the floor when you leave.”

“You need to relax, Brock,” Sharon takes the empty cup and the paper towels and drops them into the trash bin. “He’s lost what? Fifty five pounds already?” Brock nods. “Let him celebrate. We’re all really impressed with what you have been able to do with him.” Sharon moves to the cabinet where Wilbur's dried goat snacks are and pulls a singular treat out. "He didn't mean to knock my drink out of my hand." She pulls a face in his direction, "He's probably just tired of having you for his only company."

"Excuse you, my dog loves me." Brock shakes his head as Sharon makes Wilbur play dead for his snack. "Everyone spoils him with food. We are trying to break this cycle, Sharon."

She's rubbing the dog's belly after he scarfed down the treat when she says, "I'm going to take him for his walk. We will take an extra lap around the kids park or something."

"Just...he's worked so hard." Brock uncaps a water bottle and drinks from it. "Remember to smash his food around the bowl so he doesn't eat so fast."

A hand waves at him. "I know the drill. Go get your mom. Her slipping on the ice and breaking her ankle at her age is SERIOUS, Brock." She jiggles Wilbur's belly. "I got him."

He caps the bottle, "She lives in a five story walk up, she's coming back here," he sighs. Brock loves his mother but he knows that she is going to be needy. Which isn't a bad thing. She raised him as a single mother and she taught him everything he knew. (She WASN'T the one who taught him to pick locks, that was his Uncle Michael, it's still a guarded secret between the two of them.) 

"Woof, really?" Sharon finally sits on the floor to give happy kisses to Wilbur.

"Really." Brock grabs his grey Under Armor duffle bag sitting on the counter and says, "All the important numbers are taped on the fridge. His jacket and snow shoes are next to the door. Vet, dog-daycare, maintenance and plumbing guy. WiFi is the same."

"Yeah my phone connected to it already," Sharon laughs as Wilbur knocks her over in his enthusiasm.

"Call me if anything comes up, seriously." Brock stops in front of them and scratches his dog right above his tail. Happily, Wilbur turns his attention to Brock and rubs his light coat against Brock's black slacks. "I'm serious, Sharon."

She dusts off her pants after she stands and emphatically says, "I _know_. Now _go_. Traffic is going to be a bitch getting onto Staten Island."

THEN

Brock can't open his mouth to reply as Lewis stalks off, her jeans hugging her from waist to ankles. He takes a deep breath and let's it out slowly. His eyes close to stop them from following her out of the cafeteria.

"Don't take it too seriously," Foster tells him, "she's been off since Ian stayed in England."

Foster is drinking a green smoothie and looking at him curiously. "That skinny kid?"

"Dropped her like a hot potato." She sips with a shrug.

"He was boxing out of his weight class anyway," slips out before Brock can stop it. His eyes widen and Foster smirks. 

"That's what I thought, Rumlow." Foster enunciates the two syllables of his name clearly and sounds smug. 

"You science types think too much." Someone in the cafeteria drops their tray with a clatter. The both of them ignore it and continue their stare off.

"Maybe you should stop antagonizing her." Foster pulls out her phone and answers a text message with her free hand. 

"She doesn't like _me_. I have no problem with her," Brock shakes his head, "She makes it clear everytime we interact."

She slips the phone into her back pocket and ends the conversation with, "Maybe you both should talk about it, clear the air. We unfortunately cross paths with SHIELD more than we want. Your weird feud...it is in your heads." She sticks the straw back into her mouth and turns away from him before Brock can say anything else.

Rollins steps in next to him a moment later to clap his shoulders. "Striking out?"

"Never had the chance to get up to the plate, man."

"Pity." He shakes his shoulders and invites him out to drinks with his partner. Brock accepts, only because it is a dog friendly bar, and Wilbur guaranteed one or two phone numbers through the night.

NOW

"Ma, be careful!" He hovers behind his mother with her large suitcase and his own duffle. She looks behind to him and rolls her eyes before continuing on up the walkway. The bandage over her eye crinkles with her look, reminding Brock that her fall was more serious than she let on.

Brock notices that Sharon has done a good job shoveling and putting the de-icer down. Brock parked next to her green Fiat when he pulled in. It was early for her to be out of work, but maybe Maria let her leave. It is close to the holidays and Sharon NEVER takes her rest and recovery days. 

"I am sixty seven years old and I don't need you bossing me around," she says. 

He balances his duffle on top of her suitcase before grabbing his keys to open the door. "Too bad." Brock slips the key into the lock and twists his door open. "Give me a second to grab the dog. He might knock you over." 

Brock doesn't hear Wilbur's nails on the floor and for a moment he is concerned. He looks into the living room where the music video of Careless Whisper is playing and sees Wilbur laying on the couch with his head in a lap. A lap that is _definitely not_ Sharon Carter's.

His dog is a traitor. He doesn't get up to greet Brock, only looks up and wags his tail a few times. In her sleep, Lewis pats his neck and rolls her head into the knitted blanket.

"What's the hold up?" His mother asks as his phone rings loudly in his pocket.

Brock pulls the phone out as his mother leaves the door open. It's Carter. Answering the phone, he moves to pull the luggage into the house. "Let me guess there was a mission and there was only one person to call?" Brock is _trying_ not to sound angry, he really is.

"It was black out for the OP until right now," he can hear the whirring of a settling jet on the other end of the line. "I literally tossed her your keys and my keys on my way onto the jet. Cameron is in Nova Scotia visiting his family! What was I supposed to do Brock?"

"Call me?" Brock sighs heavily and his mother is staring at the woman asleep on his couch, still holding onto Wilbur. At this point he is usually knocking his mother down. Wilbur has a good twenty pounds on his petite mother and him knocking the crutches out from under her was the last thing they needed. 

"I told Cam to!" She sounds exhausted. 

"You aren't even stateside are you?" He rolls his eyes at his mother who looks overjoyed that there is a woman in the house. He looks around finally and notices there is a small artificial tree on the kitchen island and two Christmas themed sweaters thrown over the back of the chairs at the table.

"We have a lead." 

"On…"

"Yeah, Rogers took another leap without a parachute." Sharon sighs. 

"Well good luck with that mess," Brock says and runs a hand through his hair.

"Really, Brock, I'm sorry no one called." 

"I get it," Brock is exhausted. "Just get Barnes so Rogers can get his Christmas miracle."

Sharon laughs. "Maybe you will get a Christmas miracle too." Abruptly, the phone cuts out. 

"Not the intended plan?" His mother asks. She leans against the counter and picks up a wooden reindeer, the jingle bell on it's neck rings lightly and she inspects it. Brock shakes his head and drops his duffle onto the floor. His mother continues with, "Wilbur likes her."

"She feeds him Starbucks and grilled chicken from Kennedy's, of course he likes her," Brock says, not keeping his voice down, "He is food motivated."

His mom gives him a _look_. "This wouldn't be the infamous Ms. Lewis would it?" He narrows his eyes. "I only ask," she shakes the reindeer again before placing it back on the counter, "because she seemed like a very nice woman when _we_ spoke on the phone." She crosses her arms (another thing he picked up from her) and levels him with _the look_. The look she gave him when he is in _big trouble_. "You both need to figure out your problems because it seems she has gone out of her way to help you. She must have somewhere to be for the holidays instead of watching your dog."

Defeated, he says, "I...I don't know why she agreed to watch him."

"Well, you better figure it out." His mother pokes him in the shoulder. "I raised you to treat people, especially women, better than this."

"She kicked me in the dick, ma!"

She pokes him again, "After _you_ handcuffed her."

"It was an _accident_ ," Lewis' voice says angrily from the couch. 

Wilbur falls off the couch and runs towards Brock to hide behind him, "I _know_. I _don’t_ blame you," Brock shouts back. "I tossed you like a damn sack of beans over my shoulder to get you to safety. I _know_ it was an accident and that I handled the situation wrong."

Lewis is on her knees looking over the couch, her hair haphazard and the strap of her tank top droops off of a shoulder. "What?"

"What?" His mother echos.

"I should have handled the situation better," he reaches down and rubs Wilbur's shoulders to calm him.

"Wait, really?" She sits back on her haunches and rubs at her eyes. The music video switches to Madonna's Like a Virgin in the silence.

"Yeah, really." Brock says. He points at his mother, "You're in my room," he moves his finger to Lewis, "You stay in the guest room," he points to himself, "Wilbur and I will take the couch."

His mother breaks the tension with a loud snort laugh, "Wilbur _never_ sleeps next to you when I'm here."

He narrows his eyes. Wilbur is a traitor.


	5. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> apologies happen...but then again, so do gun shots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tossing this content warning in:  
> Brock kills a rattlesnake in front of a bunch of folks in defense.

NOW

Brock is on his back patio with a cigarette between two fingers. It is cold, there isn’t a doubt about that, but the calm that falling snow created was something he likes to relish in. After his mother hung all of her dresses up in his room and he opened her luggage to rest on the lane chest at the end of his bed, Brock grabbed his hidden cigarettes and opened the patio door in his bedroom. He is leaning against the edge of his hot tub and counting his breaths. He is not ready to deal with the issues that were brought up. Brock doesn’t know how to bring up _oh why are you here with my dog again, don’t you have holiday plans somewhere?_ with the woman who is still sitting on his couch, albeit now with his mother. 

He takes a long drag and watches the large heavy flakes fall from the dark sky. His neighbors have a flood light that flicks on whenever one falls by it and casts a yellow glow over half of his yard. “Fuck,” he sighs into the word before exhaling. Brock watches his breath carry up into the sky and disappear. “Fuck,” he says again. 

The door near the kitchen opens and Wilbur comes bouncing out of the house and through the snow towards him. He is wrong, Lewis _isn’t_ on the couch with his mother. “He wanted to come out,” she says loud enough for him to hear.

Lewis has shoved her feet into a pair of fashionable winter boots. They have fur fringe around the top and make it halfway to her knees, two snowballs of matching fur dangle from the laces. Slouchy sweatpants are shoved into the boots and his thick ski jacket finishes her ensemble. Her wearing it makes him catch her eye and say, “He loves falling snow.” Brock leans down and snubs the cigarette out in the snow before turning back to watch Wilbur plow his way through the snow drifts from the last storm. The storm that stranded him on Staten Island with his mother in a hotel suite after she had been released from the hospital. 

“When I finally pulled him in the other day, I had to towel him off,” Lewis leans against the kitchen door and pulls his jacket closer to her body.

Wilbur has moved to the corner of the yard covered with the hydrangea bushes and azaleas to piss. “Did you train him to go in that corner?” Lewis asks after it gets weird watching his dog do his duty.

“He started doing it by himself,” Brock sticks his cold fingers in the pockets of his black wool coat. “I think his previous owners trained him to do that.”

“Nifty.” She nods and kicks at the snow next to the door. It is piled where she shoveled it earlier in the week and the spot she kicks has a piece of ice in it. He watches the ice skitter across the top of the snow and land in a Wilbur shaped snow angel. 

“No complaints here,” Brock jokes, “I never have to worry about stepping in any surprises.”

He can see the small smirk pull up on her face under the light, “Truth.”

“You don’t have to be out here, I can bring him back in,” Brock finally says as they watch Wilbur bound his way through the backyard, catching snowflakes with his open mouth.

“He’s fun to watch,” Lewis replies. She pulls the hood of his jacket up and over her dark hair. Snow has started to stick to her locks and Brock wonders if his hair is peppered with it too. Wilbur barks loudly before plowing through the largest snow drift in the yard and tumbles. He barks louder when he recovers on his back to wiggle around. “You really have a well adjusted dog, I wasn’t joking.”

Brock nods, “Yeah, he’s a good boy.”

“Usually,” Lewis interjects, “I heard about the frappuccino incident with Sharon.”

He shrugs under his thick coat, “Usually,” he agrees. Brock snorts before pulling a hand out of his pocket. His lips curl around his fingers and he lets out a loud whistle for Wilbur. It is their no-nonsense signal to go back inside. 

Wilbur ambles happily to Darcy and his body has snow covering him from neck to ass. Brock moves toward them to reach down and shake the snow off of his large body. "At least he isn't one of those dogs who refuse to go outside when weather occurs." Lewis says it clearly next to him. They stand close and as Brock looks up through his disheveled hair, he sees the pink on her cheeks.

Holding Wilbur, he says quietly, “I’ve never been able to properly apologize for any of the shit that I’ve done.” Lewis looks at him from deep within his jacket and nods. “I’ve never taken the opportunity to spit it out,” he swallows thickly and a shiver runs up his spine, “I’m, I’m sorry for all the shit I’ve put you through.”

She stares at him as Wilbur pulls towards the door. “I should have too.” Lewis leans down and rubs Wilbur’s head. “Apologized, that is, instead of snarking at you for all these years.” They both look at the happy dog before he lets out a loud bark between them. He almost takes Lewis out at the knees trying to get at the door.

"We should all get inside." He holds Wilbur by the collar and reaches for the knob. Pushing the heavy door open, he sees his mother at the kitchen table on her phone. She has the menu of the Chinese restaurant open and she is ordering their usual. Brock motions to Darcy with a nod of his head for her to go in first while he holds Wilbur back. Drying him off was the next step in the outdoor adventure. 

"What do you like, Darcy?" His mother is loud and shouts it in the small eat-in kitchen.

Darcy unzips his coat as he makes his way into the kitchen. Wilbur sits so Brock can pull the door shut. He knows the drying drill, thankfully. "Their broccoli beef is good. And," she looks at him quickly, Brock stares at her as he towels Wilbur off, "the crab rangoon?"

Brock rubs Wilbur's belly before drying each paw one by one. "Did you want any spring rolls, Brock?" His mother asks this just as loud.

"When don't I want spring rolls?" He rolls his eyes. His mother smiles, finishing their order. "You don't want me to cook or something?"

"You have dog food, chicken breasts, a jar of mayonnaise, and a thirty rack of beer in your fridge, you aren't cooking for anyone except for Wilbur until you go shopping." She turns to Darcy who has finally pulled both of her boots off. Thick orange socks adorn her feet. Her toes wiggle at him. "She's probably been starving here!"

Darcy snorts and moves towards the table to sit next to his mother. "I have _no_ problem eating delivery every night." She looks at Brock and states, "I didn't know when your trash day was, so I haven't taken it out, sorry."

Brock finally releases Wilbur and he walks to his dish to take a deep drink of water. "It's in two days, so… no worries." Brock turns away from the two cozy looking women and unbuttons the wool coat. He hangs it over his ski jacket, between his mother's long red coat and a thick purple sweater hanging by its hood.

THEN

To ease the frustration with being stuck in New Mexico, Brock makes it a point to visit the SHIELD gym daily. Thankfully, the crew who is stationed there one hundred percent of the time has invested in decent equipment. (But, Brock might have put in a fast track requisition for a speed bag and two more treadmills for his people.)

After fucking up _again_ in front of Lewis, he needs to break his knuckles open on the speed bag. Giving up smoking is turning out to be rougher this time around. The nicotine gum isn't helping. The patch isn't helping. The only thing that seems to help with the stress of dealing with Lewis and her crew is running until his legs give out or hitting the speed bags until his arms turn to jelly. Brock is thankful he hasn’t gained the five pounds he usually does when quitting. 

The bag bounces against Brock’s fists heavily as he moves with it, wraps tight around his hands. He can feel one of his knuckles bleeding under the tape. It’s what he deserves, he thinks, after the bullshit stunt he pulled. Coulson _reprimanded_ him. Brock sighs inwardly. Why did Lewis push his buttons? Why does he let her get under his skin? 

Granted, Brock confesses, maybe he shouldn’t have pulled out his firearm and shot the rattlesnake that was curled under the Pinz. He watched Lewis pause before grabbing the handle of the driver’s side door. Brock leaped into action the moment the snake let off it’s terrifying rattle. Lewis backed up slowly until she was able to turn and run and that had been the point his cigarette fell from his lips and without hesitation drew his weapon and fired. 

He knocks the bag a few more times before stopping it. Brock’s breath is heavy as his hands hold the bag still; his forehead leans against the leather, his brow moist under a black sweatband. 

Everyone that had been outside had drawn their weapons after his shot rang out. Brock had his eyes trained on the snake who no longer rattled in warning. Lewis had dropped to the ground with her hands on her head. Jane had backed up until she fell onto the hard clay. Every other SHIELD agent had a weapon pointed at him. Quickly, he holstered his weapon and moved to the Pinz. Crouching in his tactical pants, Brock reached for the snake and pulled it’s heavy carcass out, mindful of the face. The snake was in tatters and left a trail of blood as he dragged it away from the Pinz and to the edge of the dry river bed. When the snake landed at the bottom, Brock turned to look at the assembled group of Agents and scientists.

Lewis stared wide eyed at him. She had sat back up and the knees of her jeans were torn and dirty from where she fell. 

Brock holds the bag with his fingertips and squeezes tightly. No one has ever gotten under his skin like this. Not even Amalia Nezbit, the girl he finally realized he had been pining for during the four years of high school.

NOW

Brock makes an excuse after his mother places the order and disappears to his room. He is still in his traveling clothing and he feels itchy. The trousers are too tight, his undershirt sticks to his skin, and even his boots feel heavy. He opens his dresser and stares down into the drawer. On top of all of his t-shirt is Darcy’s purple sock, clashing with his black shirts. He sighs and lifts it gently and places it next to his aftershave and deodorant stick. Brock tosses his two shirts into the laundry bin and kicks his trousers off. He is in the middle of pulling on a pair of black track pants when Wilbur scratches at his door. The pants end up low on his hips and he see’s Lewis’ eyes widen when he opens the door to let his big lug of a dog into the room. Brock’s bedroom is past the bathroom at the end of the hall, but if you sit in the right spot at the table, you can see directly in. He turns to avoid her gaze and grabs a shirt and her sock.

When he makes it into the kitchen again, _Pretty in Pink_ is playing on VH1 Classic. The Psychedelic Furs, he hasn’t thought about them in about twenty years. Lewis is on her phone, fingers tapping away at the screen and his mother is staring at him intently. He stands at the island and clears his throat, “Does anyone want a drink?” Wilbur has settled himself back under the table at his mother’s feet.

Lewis looks at his mother and then at him, meeting his eyes. “You only have beer and water, Brock.”

“There’s protein drinks in the pantry,” Lewis says.

“No thank you,” his mother shakes her head, “I ordered some sodas for myself. I will not be drinking while taking this medication.” She sighs like it is something that unsurps her life. His mother hasn’t touched a drink in twenty-five years.

“Beer, water, or protein shake, Lewis?” Brock asks. He stands in front of his fridge and grabs the door.

“I’ll just have a beer.” Brock notices her eyes have locked onto the purple sock still in his hand. “And, you can call me Darcy, we’ve known each other for like five years, Brock.” She has that smart ass sound to her voice, the voice she uses to mock his rank.

“Uh,” Brock grabs two bottles by their cold necks and pulls them out, “alright.” The telltale sound of Candy Crush chimes from his mother’s phone and he shudders. She is _still_ playing that shitty game. She played it all day while they were stranded at the hotel. He is sick of hearing the different combo-breaker noises. “Wilbur found it after you left last time.” The purple sock sits next to her cold beer on the table. 

“Oh, thanks, I was looking for this,” Darcy actually smiles before lifting her bottle and taking a sip.

Staring at her phone, his mother says, “Be glad it wasn’t a pair of your panties.” The ultra combo sounds over and over in her hands. “I heard Sharon had to replace a few pairs.” Her eyes look up and over to _Darcy_ , “Don’t let Wilbur fool you, he still has a ton of puppy left in him.” 

“It was one pair,” Brock settles heavily into his chair. “She exaggerates her stories, ma.” Brock rolls his eyes and continues, “She is just as bad as Natasha with her half truths.”

The three of them settle into a weird silence. Brock picks at the label of his beer as Darcy and his mother stare at their phones. The music has time to switch to Duran Duran and then onto Tears for Fears. “Wasn’t this that song from that weird movie? That one with the rabbit guy?” 

“Donnie Darko,” Darcy mutters as she continues to text quickly. 

“That’s the one,” his mother replies. “He brought me to see it on _Halloween_ when his lady friend at the time refused to see it.” 

“Don’t even say it ma,” Brock tries to stop her. Darcy doesn’t need to know about his love for independent movies or love of Halloween.

“That was the moment I knew it wouldn’t last.” She shakes her dark head of hair and looks pointedly at Darcy, “Six years wasted.”

He points his bottle at his mother, “Don’t listen to her.”

“Why not?” Lewis lifts her head from her phone and an eyebrow is arched high. 

Brock finally rips the label of the beer off completely, “Melinda had been reassigned to…”

“Yeah, excuses,” his mother interrupts with a wave of her tanned hand. 

Lewis’ eyes are big, “Wait, Melinda _May_?”

Before he can answer, the doorbell rings loudly to save him. Wilbur is already up and running happily to the door, no doubt able to smell the broccoli-beef on the other side of the door. It might have been _his_ favorite along with Brock’s.


	6. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur: Undercover Therapy Dog

Now

As predicted, Wilbur sleeps on the end of his bed with his mother, snoring loud enough to be heard if he focuses enough. Darcy sits curled under the knitted blanket on the couch. Brock is cross legged in a large Lay-Z-Boy recliner. The horror movie version of Jack Frost plays on the television, the scenes flashing across her pale skin as the snowman creates havoc on the screen. They have the volume low enough not to wake his mother or the rest of the neighborhood, even though they are familiar with his horror movie marathons.

“I’m really sorry I kicked you in the dick, I wasn’t aiming for it or anything” she says somewhere towards the end of the movie. “I didn’t...I wasn’t thinking straight after you handcuffed me.”

He turns from the television and looks at her, she bites her lip and her cheeks look warm. Brock pulls his own afghan closer to himself and nods his head a few times, “I mean, I’m not going to say it is fine, because it was my dick, but I understand why you did it and I accept your apology.” Darcy nods and turns her attention back to the television. Being the snarky ass that he is, Brock continues with, “If you’re worried if you caused irreparable damage, you didn’t.”

Her head bows and she starts laughing quietly. “Yeah, that was the last thing I was thinking about.” 

Brock snorts and watches Darcy as her laughs die down. She still has a smile on her face by the end of the terrible movie. She reaches for the remote, tipping forward and holding herself at the edge of the couch so she doesn't fall face first onto the coffee table. It's a feat of balancing. Brock is impressed for a moment, how many times has she done that in his home? Had she fallen the first time? Is that why the glass was sparkling clean last time she watched Wilbur? Did Darcy have to clean facial oil off of it after colliding with it?

She surfs through the channel catalog slowly. Brock watches her teeth bite her lower lip in concentration again. "It's too early to sleep," Darcy says with a huff, "but if you want me to get out of here so you can stretch out, just say the word." She still faces the television as she says that, not breaking the spell the television has over her to look at him.

Brock uncrosses his legs before pulling the lever to extend his legs forward. "Ma just went to sleep because of the pills, they knock her out quickly." He continues to look at her as she browses. "I'll be up for a while." The screen scrolls as she makes her way through them. Christmas special after Christmas special air on different channels. And Harry Potter? What was with that? Brock is baffled about the Wizarding World marathons ABC Family puts on all the time.

"Cool," she replies before stopping on the same channel they started on. "So much garbage, Bad Santa it is. Billy Bob Thorton being a piece of shit always makes me feel better about myself."

"Prancer was on Hallmark," Brock slyly suggests.

Darcy turns her head and lifts an eyebrow to challenge him, "I've seen your VHS and DVD collection, this is more your speed."

"Nothing wrong with _A Prince For Christmas_." She doesn't need to know that him and Melinda used to watch all the kitchy Christmas rom-coms together because they made her feel human (and that Brock stole lines from them to make her smile while in the field together).

She gags and shakes her head, "Yeah, I'll take Die Hard and Reindeer Games any day over that garbage."

"You're one of those people," Brock laughs.

"Yep," she does the lean-balance thing again to put the remote on the table. "My dad and I watch them whenever I'm home for the holidays."

He lets the conversation die there as Billy-Bob Thorton smokes a cigarette on screen. The movie continues and Brock loses himself to his thoughts. He still doesn't know why she is _here_ at his home. Wouldn't she rather be with Dr. Foster? Or her father? Thor? Anyone other than him. Apologies aside, he can tell that him being back makes her nervous. The staring during dinner tipped him off. His ma kept the conversation flowing between them all, but the eye avoidance and stiffness in her shoulders put him on edge.

His body relaxes into the chair twenty minutes in and he stares at the ceiling, looking anywhere but at her. "Are you going there this year?" Brock asks.

Brock doesn't hear her shift to look at him. "Nah, his new wife is a drag, we’ve never really seen eye to eye, you know?" She sighs deeply, "The spare room I usually slept in was turned into a piano room for her kids." His eyes move and glance at her. Darcy's face twists into a grimace. "I'd be on the couch there with a bunch of people fighting for my dad's time." Her hands twist the knitted blanket, "I'll see him for my birthday next month when he comes to see me here."

"What?" Brock asks, "Here?"

She looks over at him with an exasperated look, "Not here _here_ , but the D.C. metro area."

"You're staying in the area?" he tries to say in a level voice.

"Don't get all excited over there or anything." Darcy turns back to the television, "Jane is doing some lecturing at Georgetown, they'll pay for an assistant, a.k.a., moi." she motions to herself. "With SHIELD off our nuts right now, we can finally breathe for a few months."

"Until the next interplanetary emergency," Brock replies.

She points at him and makes a _cha ching_ noise. "You got it. They want us close by for their contingency planning but not actually in the building." Brock feels his chest tighten as she looks at him. He feels like _he_ is the sole reason she doesn’t want to be in the SHIELD building. Darcy continues, "Evidently we are trouble makers and since Coulson isn't at HQ right now...no one actually wants to deal with any of our _space dilemas_ and interpersonal conflicts with members of SHIELD." She motions between him and her body with large movements, "Minus our issues, there's a whole load of shit you probably don't know about and is too involved to get into."

"Would it have anything to do with Natasha breaking someone's ankle?" Brock remembers when the SHIELD crew returned from England and one of the level four Agents _accidently_ tripped in the canteen line near Natasha and his ankle snapped. 

"I cannot confirm or deny it, like I said, lots of rocky history between Jane, myself, and SHIELD. Best we stay at arms length for now." It is dramatic. Half of what Darcy Lewis did was on the slightly dramatic side. Brock is _always_ impressed with her facial expressions.

"But you'll be in the area?" Brock asks. Darcy leans over to rest her chin on the armrest and stares at him with wide eyes. Brock stares back at her.

"Got a place on campus, pretty nice digs compared to what we are used to." She _pft’s_. “Better than sharing a one bedroom flat with five people, a house boat, and a car dealership.” Darcy purses her lips and continues her stare, "Why?"

Brock prickles and a shiver roll up his spine as he becomes uncomfortable. He hasn't given this thought a lot of time to bounce around his brain, but during dinner, with Wilbur begging bites from them, he came up with the idea, especially after apologizing. He isn’t the best at apologizing and accepts that. Her return apology made it real, they are moving forward as _adults_. "Would you be interested in bringing Wilbur to his playdate thing at the cafe?" 

Her face instantly lights up, "Seriously?" Brock lets himself smile back.

"Yeah, I mean, Triskelion is across the river from Georgetown so it isn’t too far." He pulls his legs up to sit criss cross again. "He likes his play dates with the other dogs."

"You've brought him?" She moves her arms under her chin to cushion herself, she sounds happy.

A small smile pulls at his lips, "Not as often as he'd like, but I try to."

"You're not fucking with me, are you?" Brock shakes his head, hair settling around his ears. "Because I'd be so stoked to take him to his dog meetup." Billy Bob Thornton is yelling about something in his dirty Santa suit on the television and they both ignore it. "For real, you can call me any time to dog sit too. Legit," she nods, " I love Jane but sometimes I have a lot of Jane and need to get away. Hence," she motioned around the room, "the lack of hesitance when Sharon asked me to sit for Wilbur."

They stare at one another again and Brock can feel heat start traveling from his chest up to his neck and cheeks. "You'd really do that?" Brock asked quietly, "Even after...everything?"

Leaning forward to poke at Brock, he has a direct line of sight down her sleep shirt and he wills himself not to look. As she somehow does reach his leg to jab him, Brock thinks he has done a good job. He kept his eyes on her traveling finger and not her tits. "Whatever feud we had or… misunderstanding, null and void now that there's a chonky dog that needs supervision while his person is away."

"Can we stick with misunderstanding?" He isn't begging, but he doesn't want them to be _feuding_. That is a whole different level of what could have been happening through the years. Brock doesn't want to think about what actively feuding with Darcy would have been like for the last years. Probably terrible, he settles on.

"Yeah. Misunderstanding, we'll go with that." She smiles and flips onto her back on the couch and spreads out. "For real, Wilbur is the fucking _best_ wingman around. Do you know how many numbers I've gotten around D.C. because I have him by my side?"

"How many?" Brock plays along. If the number is anything like his it is:

"All of them, all the numbers." So it isn't just Brock that Wilbur's personality affects their ability to pull. Because he knows the feeling. When he feels like goddamn shit but Wilbur drags him out of his comfort zone and introduces him to new people on the street. Even in joggers and a fanny pack, Wilbur is able to work his magic and Brock would have a number in hand by the end of the walk.

"Lewis," Brock shakes her shoulder.

Brock woke with a start two minutes before he attempts to shake her awake. They must have dozed off between Bad Santa and Krampus. The devilish monster is on screen currently hunting children. Brock squats next to the couch and shakes her again, "Lewis, wake up."

He keeps up the gentle shaking until her eyes blink slowly at him, "Wassit?" She slurs and her eyes close heavily.

"Please don't kick me again," he prays quietly. Darcy pulls the knitted blanket closer to her body and turns to face the back of the couch. A snore escapes her before Brock lets out another long suffering sigh. "Please, please, don't kick me."

Slipping his arms under the blanket and her body, Brock lifts her body carefully. The dead sleeping weight is much different than her kicking and screaming weight. He steps quietly around the couch to his guest bedroom. He toes the door open before sliding Darcy from his arms onto the bed. 

"MmmHmm," he hears her say in her sleep, "one puppuccino." Brock pulls the duvet over her and stares. She looks so _young_. "Excelsior!" Darcy says in her sleep. 

Brock shakes his head and turns away from her. As he is about to push the door close to give her privacy, Wilbur nudges his head between the door and it's frame. He squeezes his body through and turns to look at Brock, "You're a traitor, buddy." He rubs under Wilbur's chin. "Sleep tight, love you." Wilbur gives him a soft woof before turning and jumping into the bed next to the woman. 

Brock turns from her room and startles. His mother leans against the island and has a glass of water in her hand. How didn't he hear her move from the next room? 

She drinks deeply from the glass before setting it down. His mother has a deep stare on that chills him to the core whenever she levels it upon him. "You know, I spoke to her on Halloween while you were away." Her fingers tap rhythmically against the cold stone. "Of course, I didn't _know_ you were away or I wouldn't have called." Brock feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle up, she’s about to give him one of her speeches. "I'd say she's a good kid, but," she moves around the counter to stand near him, limping on her booted ankle, "she isn't a kid, is she?"

He blinks down at her. What was she getting at? Brock knows Darcy is a woman. He's known for _years_ , since he first put his eyes on her. "What ma, I know you want to say something."

What was with people poking him. All the women he knew did it. His mother's pokes were the worst of the bunch. Even worse than Natasha's. "Use your head Brock." She ran a hand through his thick hair. "Stop being so stubborn and do something good for yourself."

He grabs his mother's hand softly and holds it. "I didn't even know she tolerated me until tonight."

"Open your eyes, Brock, because you know that isn’t true." She rolls her eyes, "Don't pull this shit, I don't want to see your heart break again."

Brock drops her hand and watches her hold onto the counter until she makes it back to his room. Why did she have to say that? Especially _like_ that. Wilbur. Wilbur is his breakup dog. His last long term relationship…his mother had a lot of feelings about it and hadn't been afraid to tell him. And that had sent him into panic mode. Worse than the panic he feels when stuck in a small enclosed space with not readily apparent routes to exit.

"You don't let anyone love you because you don't love yourself." She told him after he called to give her the unfortunate news. "Learn to love yourself and maybe you'll be able to love someone else."

His SHIELD appointed therapist suggested a pet and Brock took the dive. He had always _wanted_ a dog.

The unconditional love Wilbur gives him daily makes Brock pause to live in the moment. He leans against the steel fridge to close his eyes. The only things holding him together some days are his dog and his mother, what would they do without him? SHIELD, it isn't for everyone, and some days Brock wants to throw it all away. He wants to know what life feels like without the worry about coming back too fucked up after an OP to function.

But in reality, Brock knows he is a killer under it all. He’s _good_ at it, one of the best. It might be for world security, but he still went in and did the wet-work other’s were afraid to do. Who would want that in their life? Finding a partner who accepts that, they are one in a million.

When he finally makes it to the couch, Brock grabs a pillow to shove behind his head and wraps himself tight in his blanket. When he turns to face the TV he can smell something feminine. Fruits, flowers, and a hit of something dark, rich, and earthy. He takes a deep breath and releases it. Brock tells himself to stop being a creep, there's not a way in hell that she'd ever be interested. She's seen how broken he is; how, sometimes, he doesn't think before he acts. How quickly he can pull a trigger.


	7. Part 7

Then

If there weren't a bunch of upper echelon government types at the SHIELD holiday shindig, Brock tells himself, he would have been on his way home to hang with his dog. The crushing blow that Nimah dealt him in November is still fresh. Six people have already asked him where she was. Their looks, Brock couldn’t stomach their looks. Yeah, she was beautiful, was that all the men around him saw when she accompanied him to SHIELD events? No one even paid attention to him when he would attend FBI events with her. Agents were always asking Nimah for her opinion of how she would work an OP, or how she was doing after falling during a training mission with the students at Quantico. 

SHIELD tries to recruit her every year, that’s how good she is, but in the end, she is married to the Bureau, just like Brock is married to SHIELD. Between Brock always on alert for last minute deployments, her at the beck and call for recruits, and the lack of connection had been the end of it. It was a good three years. A _really good_ three years for a mostly physical relationship. 

He tosses back the last bit of rye in his glass. SHIELD functions, fundraising, _schmoozing_ , Nimah _hated_ it just as much as he did. How did they get through these in the past? They locked onto one another and stood together, attempting the look of two people deeply in love, and not two people enjoying just the physical part of life together. Brock slides the glass onto the stainless steel bar and then waves to the bartender. Thankfully, it is the company SHIELD always caters with. (Brock is pretty sure there are undercover agents working the room, gathering intel that otherwise would be missed. No intel is greater than a congressman lubricated with alcohol boasting about what is _actually_ happening on capitol hill. It’s not his department, thankfully.)

Playing in a corner of the room is a quintet. The singer is a short black woman in a slinky red dress and she has been hitting every high and every low note. Brock can appreciate a band with a singer that has a voice as versatile as hers. She is currently crooning her way through Nat King Cole’s _The Christmas Song_ in her own world. The twinkle lights surrounding the band glint off of the microphone. The cellist is over exaggerating their movements behind the singer, smiling big, and enjoying what they are doing. 

The bartender finally slips his rye to him on an embossed green and red napkin with a wink. He knows how Brock feels. He doesn’t want to be here but has the obligation to be. 

Sighing, Brock picks up his drink and moves closer to the quintet. He has shown his face. He has shown his face _without_ a date. He can still feel the looks of others on his back. Brock can’t wait to rub it in his mother’s face that she was _wrong_ that no one would mention Nimah. 

Is two hours long enough for him to have been there, Brock thinks. The thought distracts him enough that he bumps into a shorter woman and his rye spills on her bare arm. She has a dark fall of hair over her other slim shoulder and he _knows_ the set of those shoulders. “Sorry.”

Her eyes narrow and lock onto his. “What the,” her hand moves up to wipe at the dribble of rye. “Rumlow,” her voice is icy.

“Here, here,” he passes her the thick napkin so she can wipe her shoulder. He averts his eyes and looks at the people she is standing with. Cameron Klein is silent and stares as she wipes her arm. One of the scientists from The Bus, Fitzsimmons was it, she is staring at him too. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” Brock sounds defeated. 

“Just go,” Lewis says quietly. He nods curtly and walks off. Behind him he can hear her, “It’s down the side of my tit, I’ll be right back.” 

Brock finally sits near the band to nurse what is left of the rye and canvasses the room. He sees Lewis walking out with her silver and blue gown held in her hands. She’s making her way to the atrium where the restrooms are and he feels awful. 

If his Christmas could just get on with it and get worse, that’d be great, he thinks as the singer winks at him and starts singing _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_. It feels like an omen. 

Two songs later, the omen comes to fruition. In his pocket, he feels his work phone go off. Pulling it out, he looks at the message. Fucking Fury. Fucking Christmas. Fucking SHIELD. His mother is going to be upset that he is going to miss _another_ Christmas. Brock leaves his drink sweating on the table and goes back towards Cameron Klein. They had agreed on this contingency plan when he adopted Wilbur last month. Klein would stay with him while his family was in town celebrating the holiday with him. 

“I left a written list of all the important dog stuff on the fridge,” Brock says, fishing his keys out of his suit pocket. 

“Is your mom going to surprise me on Christmas?” he asks Brock, “Because she terrifies me.”

Brock rolls his eyes, “She’s four eleven and a hundred pounds soaking wet.” He doesn’t confirm that she _won’t_ be there. Let Klein live life on edge for the holidays. 

As he turns to leave, hands push at his chest as he collides with Lewis again. The side of her dress has a wet spot and her cheeks are flushed pink. “Watch it, Rumlow!”

He backs up with his hands held high before turning and leaving. Natasha, Sharon, Clint are also making their individual exits. He sees Jack at the bar slipping the bartender his number _again_ before he, too, moves towards one of the exits. Under all of the rabble around him, Klein twirls his keys around one of his fingers and tells Lewis, “I guess I’m watching his dog for Christmas?”

Now

Wilbur’s tail is wagging a mile a minute when they get back from his morning walk. The snow that fell last night coats the sidewalks in heavy drifts. Thankfully, Brock knows that the cemetery plows all of the walking paths early in the morning and doesn’t mind well behaved humans with their pets. He can hear talking coming from his kitchen and then Darcy’s loud laugh meets them. Wilbur pulls harder at the canvas leash, not wanting to wait for Brock to pull the dog-boots off of him. 

“Yeah get on with it,” Brock unclasps the leash once they are off and Wilbur’s feet skitter through the house to be met with loud praise in the kitchen from his mother. “Don’t feed him any of that bacon!” he shouts.

“Too late,” his mother shouts back. Breakfast delivery places have saved him and his mother numerous times when she has shown up and he has nothing in the refrigerator.

“It’s like you don’t even care that he’s lost over fifty pounds or something,” Brock shouts and drops his snow boots next to the door. He pulls his wool coat off, drapes it over his arm and moves towards the kitchen. He can smell the eggs, bacon, biscuits, and sausage gravy from the front door. 

His mother pulls her hand back from slipping Wilbur a bacon snack. “Of course I care, he’s my only grandchild.” She looks at Darcy, “For someone who only ate chicken nuggets, corn, and pizza as a child, he’s awfully strict with his own child.” Darcy laughs around her fork of biscuits of gravy.

Hanging his coat up, Brock replies, “At least it was homemade pizza and not Dominoes or Tennessee Joe’s Pizza.”

Waving a strip of bacon, the older woman agrees, “That pizza dough is the only thing I remember my grandmother teaching me to make.”

Brock shakes his head as if this is an oft discussed topic, “And it is the only thing you ever passed onto me. Yadda, yadda, yadda, I know ma.”

“Chicken nuggets and corn?” Darcy asks while using her fork to cut into another piece of buttery biscuit. “But he’s so,” she waves in Brock’s direction while speaking to his mother, “fit.”

Putting her glass of orange juice down, she answers for Brock, “The Seal’s straightened his dietary problems out.”

“Like the Navy Seals?” Darcy asks him and shoves the bite of biscuit into her mouth. She has wild hair knotted at the top of her head and has on a thick black sweater that drapes off of her left shoulder, the one closest to him. He pauses and stares at her skin. It’s the same shoulder he spilled rye on at the SHIELD Christmas party two years ago. 

He looks up to meet her eyes and says, “Yeah, twelve years of it.” Brock grabs the last unopened box of to-go food and sits in his chair. He knows his mother ordered him an omelette doctored with spinach and feta with a side of hollandaise. He’s off potatoes right now and is proud of his mother for remembering. 

“Wait, seriously?” she asks around a mouthful of food.

Brock feels Wilbur settle under the table on his toes, he can hear his fat tail swishing on the floor. He reaches for a fork to start eating and says, “Yeah, I mean, it’s not a big deal.” Brock clears his throat.

“He only says that because two thirds of that team of his are ex-Navy Seals or Green Berets or… what’s that Air Force thing...Pararescue or something.” His mother has been proud of him since the day he enlisted, knowing that there was no way that they would be able to afford college on her salary and his less than stellar grades. 

“Really?” she drags the word out and stares openly as he eats.

“Really.” A piece of spinach sticks between his teeth. “It was something to do.” He _hates_ when his mother makes a big deal about him being on the Seal team. 

“How…” her blue eyes squint at him like he is a puzzle she is trying to figure out, “No one ever said anything.”

He waves his fork at her, “I guess it is just an assumed thing for the STRIKE teams.”

His mother interjects, “Did you ever ask?” Her dark brow is high hiding in her blunt bangs.

“Well,” Darcy pauses, “no.”

“There you go!” Brock wishes that the world would swallow him up. His mother never knew when to stop. This inquisition was worse than anything Melinda, Nimah, or Corine ever had to go through. Maybe his mother knew that Darcy couldn’t make her death look like an accident. 

The rest of breakfast goes on in an awkward silence. Brock catches his mother feeding Wilbur under the table again and lets out another long suffering sigh. The women in his life, they test his patience daily.

His mother pushes her chair back and holds herself by the edge of the table, “By the way, Mike and I have decided we are going to Daytona Beach for Christmas.”

Darcy looks at him. He looks with a bewildered look and then turns to his mother. “Why?”

She hobbles to the sink and tosses her fork in without a care, “I’ve always wanted to see Santa ride a motorcycle. He’s on his way from Philly right now.”

“Are you kidding me, ma?” Brock sits back heavily in his chair, crosses his arms and gives her the same stare she likes to level on him. 

“It’s cold. I’m old. Let me live a little.” Thankfully, Darcy’s back is to his mother and she looks pointedly down at her. “You won’t have to miss the SHIELD shindig again this year.”

“Aw fuck, I forgot about that,” Darcy cries from her chair. “Fuck.” She fumbles in her pocket for her phone and pulls it out. Before she is even out of her chair, she has Jane on the phone. “Dude, I forgot about the _thing_ that we hate.” She makes it to the guest bedroom with a, “Monkey fucks, I hate that shit,” before snapping the door closed.

“Well, that went well.” His mother smirks at him and blows him a kiss. “I’m serious though, I can’t wait to see Santa on a motorcycle, and no, it wasn’t my idea. Mike texted me last night.” It isn’t much better that he was the one to suggest it, he knows his uncle will take fine care of her. 

In the end, Brock _does_ miss the SHIELD holiday shindig. After his mother leaves with his uncle and Brock hands Darcy a key to the house. She looks down at it and a wide smile blooms on her face. They trade numbers so if a last minute Wilbur emergency comes up she can take care of it. 

The morning of the holiday party, Brock sits at his desk when the call comes in. Maria is activating the team and it sounds like it is going to be a long operation. She asks how long it will take him to make arrangements for his dog, but he already has his phone out with an answer from Darcy. He explains that it might be a long thing, three weeks to a month and she understands. Brock texts Klein to stay in touch with Darcy about Wilbur. Not being able to say goodnight to his number one bud saddens Brock, but he knows the situation in Burkina Faso is something SHIELD has been working on for months. Spending the holidays and New Year with his team, not the worst way he’s ever spent one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah. i borrowed Nimah from Quantico. no shame. hello #powercouple
> 
> (not pertaining to the story at all but last night the Rattlesnake scene ended up ACTUALLY playing out at my neighbors house. We heard shots go off and then they were like "HAY ITS COOL WE WERE JUST SHOOTING A RATTLESNAKE" and it ended up being 5+ feet monster. wtf man)


	8. Part 8: Interludes 1-4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiny scenes to introduce Bucky Barnes: former Soviet Assassin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am posting two chapters today so peep that

**Interlude I**

James Barnes, formerly the Winter Soldier, formerly The Asset, looks up from under the dirty scarf wrapped three times around his neck. That _Punk_ isn’t very stealthy, especially not with the other guy, the one that can _fly_. (Barnes still can’t believe half of the shit he's seen since escaping Hydra) Not like the familiar red headed woman. Her and the blonde woman blend well into the crowds of Bucharest. He lets out a long breath and it clouds in front of his face, he can't wait to get back to his flat and have a warm cup of tea. 

A stranger passing by drops a few bani into his cup and brings his focus back to the present. Barnes wishes them a deep, “Craciun Fericit.” Barnes can hear the six o'clock Christmas mass bells ring across the city as another passer by slips a fifty note into the cup. 

He pulls his wool hat down with thick gloves and can hear what they are saying if he focuses. The _Punk_ is angry that he has given him the slip again. _Steve/Punk/Steve_ thought that they had him this time. The red headed woman stares at him from down the block and assures him that they will find him next time.

An ally. He needs one of those. The man who loosened the bolts to the chair and slipped him a shiv hasn't tried to make contact.

**Interlude II**

Darcy and Wilbur watch from Natasha’s Range Rover with matching dopey smiles. Steve laps the other running man _again_. Natasha shakes and passes Darcy the bag of candied pecans before asking, “Do you think Sam will give up one of these days?”

The dead leaves rustle in the trees above them. Wilbur tries to steal the snack from her hand. He is already dressed in his bowtie and is ready to party. “Don’t know, but he looks like he’s slowing down.” Darcy points to the man who has slowed his run to a jog and down to a brisk walk, hands on his back to stretch his chest out.

“He doesn’t look like a quitter,” Natasha comments before popping another pecan in her mouth.

“I mean, he did make it six laps today,” Darcy says around a pecan, “Steve only did twenty.” She passes the bag back to Natasha in the driver’s seat. “How angry do you think Rumlow is going to be when he finds out that I brought his dog to this stupid party?”

She rolls the edge of the bag of nuts closed before popping the glove compartment open to throw it next to a spare garrote. “Not as angry as you’d think.” Natasha’s phone blips and she looks at it, Darcy see’s Sharon’s name but the rest is obscured. She _knows_ it has to do with whatever they have been deploying for because a minute later, Steve and Sam jog over and slide into the SUV. Natasha smiles back at Darcy, “You’re alright with Wilbur as your date tonight?”

Sam rubs the head of the dog in question. “Who else would I bring to the SHIELD Holiday Shit Show?”

**Interlude III**

Two SHIELD agents, Steve Rogers, and Sam Wilson look down at the body resting between their feet. “Merry Christmas,” James Barnes kicks at the hip of the dead man.

Sharon is the first to holster her weapon followed by Sam. “You’re a couple weeks late, but I never turn a gift down.” Clint slings his bow across his body and crouches next to the deceased. He looks up at Steve, Sharon, and Sam, “What? You’re acting like this is the first time anyone has ever gifted you someone from the Most Wanted list.” 

“It _is_ ,” Steve says. Sharon shrugs and does the maybe signal with her hand.

“Don’t look at me, I was in a black op’s squadron for ten years,” Sam holds his hands up and takes a step back. “Gifts come in all shapes and sizes.”

Barnes pulls his backpack around and unzips it. He hands Clint a moleskin that has neat penmanship through it. “Helmut Zemo, he gratefully wrote his master plan out for you.”

Clint flips through it, “He was going to… _holy shit_ , we have to get to Vienna.”

Barnes kicks at Zemo’s hip again to roll him on his back. The man bleeds from a clean shot between his eyes. “Natalia is already on it.” He pulls another book out. The binding is red with rusty stains, pages peek out of the edge, and the cover is frayed. A black leather star takes up most of the front. “We need to destroy them.” Steve grabs the books and scans page after page. “There are five more like me,” Bucky grits out. 

Sharon pulls out her phone, “I guess we better call The Cavalry.”

**Interlude IV**

Natasha explains to him in depth about the undercover jobs Rumlow used to pull when they finally make it stateside. Rumlow reported directly back to Fury about the time he spent in Hydra bunkers and the people he worked with. It was deep cover work and no one knew how deep he was except Fury and Rumlow, himself. Natasha doesn’t know if he still does deep cover work. Nimah is adamant that he no longer reports back to Pierce and Hydra as an active agent. Nimah swore with her life that Brock, on Fury’s orders, convinced Pierce that he should be a sleeper agent, one that should only be called for the most dangerous of jobs. 

Barnes watches a car pull into the driveway and a young woman steps out with a man that she shares looks with. “Who is that?”

Natasha snorts, “His dog sitter, Darcy Lewis.”

Barnes stares at her and thinks about the files he’s been able to hack his way into as he laid waste to different Hydra safe houses across Europe. He's heard the name before. “Thor.”

“She had first contact with him.” Natasha blows a bubble and snaps it in his ear. “What about her?”

He opens her glove box and pulls a garrote out to fiddle with it. “She’s not a mark.”

Natasha snatches her garrote back and sits on it. “Not that we can tell,” she waves a manicured hand at the house, “Whatever they have going on between them has been happening for years.”

Tapping _all_ of his fingers on his thighs, he says, “But they know who she is.”

“They have her file, but I don’t think they know who she _is_ to him.” Natasha chews her gum loudly.

Barnes sits back in the warm leather seat and pushes long dark hair behind his ears, “They know.” He nods to a man watching his dog piss in the rear view mirror, “Hydra.”

“Are you sure?” Natasha questions. Barnes nods once. Natasha shifts the Honda Accord into gear and drives slowly off. “And you’re sure Rollins helped you? That he’s clean?”

Looking sharply at her, Barnes raises an eyebrow and says, “His face is pretty memorable, Natalia.”


	9. Part 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I POSTED CHAPTER 8 TODAY ALSO. PEEP THAT

Two days between missions isn't much time, but Brock is going to make the best of it. Once his cell phone is in hand he opens it to find a few dozen pictures of Wilbur in various states. There is one where Wilbur looks pleadingly behind himself at Darcy and Jane as they drink Starbucks without him. 

Evidently, she is the kind of woman to slap an emotional support vest on his dog, even if it was only for the holiday shindig. Twenty seven more texts come through with photos of his dog and various people dressed to the nines. Wilbur and Darcy look happy. She's in a deep cut purple and black cocktail dress and he has a familiar bowtie around his neck. It is his white bowtie with a Christmas Light motif printed on it. The only people who are aware that he owns this particular tie are:  
his mother  
Sharon Carter, who bought it for him as a gag gift after Nimah and him split up.  
The bowtie lives in the bottom of his gym clothes drawer under the oldest pair of boxing shorts he owns, the shimmery green ones Jack bought as a gag gift the year he received the promotion to Commander.

The same singer from two years ago is in one of the photos, kneeling to rub at Wilbur's happy jowls. Her hair is twisted up into a beehive, her micro braids giving it texture. The singer and Darcy wear a similar shade of lipstick and give Wilbur matching kisses to the side of his head.

Wilbur barks on the other side of the door as Brock juggles the two rifle cases in his hands to open his door. In the end, he sets one down on the shoveled step. The moment the door swings open, Wilbur races around him in a circle before jumping up for a hug. "Yeah, I'm back a few days buddy." Brock wraps his arms around his number one bud and gives him a hug before pushing him down,"Let's get inside." 

Brock grabs the rifle cases and props them next to the door as Wilbur bounds into the house, all ninety two pounds of him running in quick circles. Brock is quick to kneel on the floor after closing the door and praise him. He is such a _good boy_. The other thirty two messages in his email were proof of it. The organizer of the Labrador meet-up had emailed him to let him know how _happy_ she was that Darcy was able to bring Wilbur. 

Wilbur gives Brock warm wet kisses on his face and neck so forcefully that Brock falls back and gives up. The two of them eventually lay on the living room floor next to one another. Wilbur gives him intermittent kisses and his tail wags. Brock pets him on his thick blonde neck and gives Wilbur his favorite skritches near his hips. 

Eventually, Brock gets up, knowing that if he doesn't he will happily lay there with his dog and ignore the mission he was just relieved from and not think about the mission STRIKE Alpha is reassigned to. "I'm just getting my bag," Wilbur looks up at him with sad eyes. "Alright, alright." Wilbur follows Brock to his Jeep where he pulls his bag out. "No way, buddy, we aren't going for a ride right now." He pulls Wilbur back by the shoulders when he tries to jump into the vehicle. 

Brock’s Wilbur shaped shadow gazes adoringly at him as he sorts laundry and starts a wash. He sits patiently on the bathmats when Brock takes a long needed shower and lays happily at his feet as Brock strips his firearms at the kitchen table, cleaning them in just a pair of black boxer briefs. It's a habit he's had since his days with the Seals. Get away from the office as soon as possible to compartmentalize what happened during a mission while going through the familiar motion of rubbing gun oil in the barrel of his firearms. 

He forgets that there are two rifles and three handguns dismantled on the table when he wakes up. His shoulder shakes roughly. "Where's the fuckin' fire," he mutters half asleep.

"Dude, my dad's freaking out." Darcy says. It isn't quite a whisper but it is definitely lower than her normal tone. 

"What?" Brock turns under his sheet and his eyes barely crack when Darcy's face comes into focus. She stares down at his bare chest before biting the end of her lip. Brock has to avert his eyes from staring again. Waking up with her leaning over him, he shouldn't get used to it, he tells himself.

Suddenly her finger prods his bare shoulder. Her eyes finally flick up from his chest to his face. "Guns. Table. Father." She shakes her loose hair around her shoulders, "I told him you'd be back for the next couple of days but I didn't know you'd be bringing an arsenal back to your house." Darcy sighs heavily and quickly adds, “I mean it’s your house do whatever you want, it was just a surprise.”

"Aw, fuck." He throws a tanned arm over his face and groans. "I am _so_ sorry." Darcy finally moves back towards the door as he pulls the sheet back, exposing himself to the cool air and scrambles to stand. Brock pulls his sweats up to his hips and exits the room close behind her, definitely _not_ staring at her.

Her father is about his height with salt and pepper hair, maybe fifteen years his senior. Brock has about twenty five pounds of muscle on the man and can see by the way he stands that the man’s right side is his weaker side. If Brock was to guess, the man has an old knee injury that never healed properly.(Brock shakes his head, getting out of recon mode from a mission always took time.) Her father has smile lines across his face but his lips are set in a thin line as he looks at the weapons on the table. "Dad. Brock. Brock. Dad." Brock notices Darcy not looking anywhere at him with her pitiful introduction.

"Brock Rumlow," he reaches out, half awake.

"Darren Lewis." Darcy's father has a firm grip as they do a quick shake. "What is it you do again?"

His hands reach for the weapons on autho pilot and Brock starts to assemble the weapons quickly under the man's scrutiny. "Special operations," he says as Darcy replies, "World Security."

Wilburs tags jingle and Brock peeks at Darren. He is rubbing Wilburs head and staring as Brock snaps pieces together. "Both, I guess." The two SIGs and the Baretta are back in their small case in no time before he moves onto the rifles.

"He was a Navy Seal, _dad_." Darcy emphasizes like it explains everything. Brock can _hear_ the roll of the man's eyes. "Don't take that tone with me," she laughs next to him. "Not everyone is made to be a Nephrologist."

There is a long pause. Brock can feel the both of them watching as he finishes one rifle. "Yeah, I see that."

"What dad?!" Darcy asks. “What do you want to say?”

"Isn't this a lot of guns?" the older man asks.

"Dad! Really?"

Brock is halfway done with the second rifle."Well, they aren't loaded and the closest full magazine for this rifle is under the coffee table. There's a loaded nine mil on top of the fridge," Brock says and it doesn't look like the comment helps ease the tension in the older man’s shoulders at all so he adds, "and I have the gun safe in my room."

The both of them exclaim, "What?"

Brock's hazel eyes shift between the two of them. "Wait, I didn't tell you when I gave you keys?"

"No!" Darcy's voice pitches high and she wheezes. "No you definitely did not."

Brock screws the last piece in tight before letting the rifle sit back on the table, "...Are you sure?"

"Yes!" Darcy holds herself up at the island and her dad has gone from looking queasy to looking delighted. 

"Oh," Brock rubs the residue of the gun oil on his sweats and shakes his head, "No time like the present?" His voice is hopeful, boyish, and tired.

"Absolutely not," Darcy waves at her father, "He does not need to know or see…"

Brock watches her father take a step forward, his brown loafers squeak on the tile, "Actually, I would."

The three of them stand in front of the matte black gun safe in Brock’s walk in closet. It is open and the assortment of weapons are lined up neatly. "Holy fuck, dude." Darcy backs into his good suits and the hangers jostle.

"Oh, wow." Her father stares into the large case.

"It's for work," Brock tries to add helpfully.

"World security?" The older man asks. He reaches out to touch the edge of a scope nestled at the top of the safe.

"Eyes only, please," Brock says, a small smile on his face.

"Of course, of course," he shakes his head and turns to look at Brock, really looks at him. Brock closes the safe under his gaze and resets the biometric lock. "World security?" He asks one more time.

"Jesus Christ, dad!" Darcy throws her hands up before grabbing Brock by the bicep. "World Security. Avengers. SHIELD." She emphasizes the last word and shakes Brock by his bare arm, pointing at his bare chest, "This right here is Jack Booted Thug Numero Uno!"

"What?" Brock and her father ask at once. Her father sounds surprised, putting the name to a face, and Brock didn't know she called him _that_.

"Wait, wait a minute," Darren looks between the two of them, "This is _that guy_?"

"What guy?" Brock asks.

He leans back and peers at Brock intently again, "The way you described him, I always thought he'd be younger."

"Oh my God," Darcy drops his arm and walks out of the closet. Wilbur jumps off of his bed and follows her out of the room.

"I'm not old," Brock side eyes her dad before escorting him out of the walk-in. Darren laughs at him. "Forty-five is _not_ old," he swears it slips out because of his sleepless delirium, "You're the one pushing daisies."

Darcy's father looks at Brock's serious face once and then looks at him again before laughing loudly on his way out of the room. Now Brock knows where she gets her laugh from. The man in the Chinos and button up under a cardigan laughs with his whole body and the sound carries through Brock's home. "Honey, you never said he's _funny_." 

"Because he isn’t," Darcy yells from the living room, "and we are not talking about this!"

Brock grabs the remaining hand gun cases and stares at the older man, "I'm only here for two days, I…fuck." Brock closes his eyes as he remembers that her father was going to visit for her birthday. Brock whispers to the older man, "When's her birthday?"

The man laughs loudly again and slaps his thigh. Wilbur barks happily from the other room. "The two of you," he laughs until he has tears run from the edge of his eyes. Wiping them, Darren looks at Brock's deer in the headlights look and stage whispers, "Three days."

While they whisper, Darcy shouts, “And I knew about the gun on top of the fridge, by the way! I grabbed it the first time I was here when I was trying to reach Wilbur’s S-N-A-C-K-S," she spells the last word out. He sees her leaning over the back of the couch yelling, "I found the Bowie knife under your table and the weird disc things that Natasha uses under the couch cushions, too."

Natasha Romanov stands on his stoop, the inky predawn darkness wraps around her like a cloak. “You owe me,” she says as Brock grabs the wrapped gift from her hands. Brock has a five thirty flight to catch out of Dulles to get to Eastern Europe. She is on her way to fly ahead on the Quinjet for recon with Rogers.

“No shit,” Brock whispers. “I don’t even want to know where you found them.”

“Yeah, you _don’t_ because you’d owe him a favor too,” her cat-like grin widens. “I’ll cash those favors in one day, Rumlow.”

“I know,” Wilbur tries to shove his way through the door to Natasha. “Really though, thank you.” 

Natasha’s small hand rubs behind Wilbur’s ear. Brock catches her green eye stare while she says, “You know she’s the kind of woman who _does_ like getting chocolate and flowers.”

He pulls Wilbur back with his free hand, “Do I owe you for that too?”

Shrugging in her brown leather jacket, Natasha turns and walks towards her idling Range Rover. Steve Roger’s rolls down the back window to look at him. An unknown black man looks around Rogers’ chest and out at him. The both of them laugh before saluting as Natasha drives off. Yeah, he’d rather owe Natasha _another one_ instead of Steve Rogers. And, Brock thinks, he doesn’t want to know what, or who, Natasha has seated behind her tinted front window.

Brock is somewhere over the Atlantic when someone knocks at the door. Darcy stares at it, still wrapped in a blanket, not ready to start her day. Her father had _promised_ he would let her sleep in and they would get together after noon for her birthday. The person knocks again before ringing the doorbell twice. 

Wilbur doesn’t get up. He knows it isn’t Brock or chinese delivery. 

“Fine,” Darcy huffs and throws off the knitted blanket. “I’m coming,” she shouts. 

Darcy wrenches the door open and blinks. There is a young woman standing there with a bouquet of StarGazer lilies mixed with matching red and pink roses. “Delivery for a,” the woman looks at the slip, “Darcy Lewis?”

Darcy doesn’t have words as she takes the arrangement in both hands, it is heavy and cumbersome. “Yeah, uh, that’s me.” Cheerfully, the woman wishes her a happy birthday. Darcy thanks her before closing the door and carefully walking to the kitchen. She slides the glass vase to the middle and searches for a card. Her hands brush paper and she pulls out a bright blue envelope. Darcy flips it open to read the note from Brock. 

Shaking her head, she shoves the card back into the bouquet. Darcy drags a chair over to the fridge and climbs it. Sitting next to _another_ Sig Sauer is a neatly wrapped gift. She peels the edge of the tape off of the side and peeks in, “No fucking way,” she hears Wilbur scramble up from his spot in the living room, feeling her excitement. “You won’t.. Wilbur what has your dad done now?” 

The rest of the paper she rips off quickly and a stack of matted, wrapped, original drawings sit in her hands. Drawings _Steve Rogers_ drew for fun in the 1940’s for Bucky Barnes and his love of pulp horror movies. “Holy shit,” Wilbur circles around her legs, “Holy shit.”


	10. Part 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what I am writing any more.

Brock knows that he is going to be bringing a fight down on the group of assembled Avengers. He knows that at least Romanov and Rogers know he is going to be bringing hellfire upon them and he is ready for the consequences. Brock just wishes he could have told Darcy before he left. That he might need someone to permanently look after Wilbur. The possibility of one of the other Winter Soldiers being activated is a credible threat, and if their intel was correct, they are the most dangerous of foes, even more dangerous than the first Winter Soldier operative he had handled once in 2003.

When the commercial flight stops in Berlin for Brock's briefing, Jack Rollins is the only other STRIKE member with him. Fury knows he is being watched and he reiterates that he is sending in his best to take care of the situation in Siberia with the Avengers to make sure the mission gets completed. Brock hopes that Jack is clean and that he will fight with him and the Avengers. He knows all of Brock's weaknesses and will take him out without hesitation. 

After the meeting, Brock whips out his phone and sends off a text message to the number Pierce had left him with the day he was promoted into the Commander role. He waited until the last possible moment to inform the man of the mission, even though it has been in the works for five days. There is no response, but Brock wasn't expecting one. Once on the jet, Jack and Brock arm themselves in the back on a Quinjet only speaking about mission details. The pilot doesn’t come to check on them, and Brock has the feeling it is their back up. Someone lethal that HYDRA wouldn’t be expecting to face.

When they finally land near the cliff face where the entrance is, Romanov appears from the shadows and opens the rusted door. “You’re going to miss all the fun, gentlemen,” Fury has told her that there will be an ‘attack’. When they finally make it to the holding tanks for the other Winter Soldiers. The familiar form of The Winter Soldier stands there with a matte black rifle in hand and it is pointing at one of the cryotanks. Brock definitely wasn’t expecting him to be fighting with the Avengers.

“Well, this is anticlimactic, I thought they’d be live agents,” Sam Wilson says.

“Why’d you say that?” Steve asks, “Someone always says something that and…” a bullet from above them ricochets off the stone wall above Rogers’ head.

Brock knows that Barton is somewhere above them and ready to pick off insurgents. Brock was briefed when he was put into sleeper agent mode for a situation like this. He was supposed to stay true to SHIELD and not give away his status for HYDRA. In his ear, Barton says, “There’s about fifty of them, closer to sixty inside. There’s twelve outside in cold weather gear surrounding the jet Rumlow and Rollins came in on. Agent 13 is on it.” A woman coughs on the line, “and the Cavalry is here too, sorry.” Melinda, Brock snorts. Of course that was the feeling he had creeping up his spine for the whole trip. She always kept him on his toes and he always felt like she was watching every one of his moves while together.

An arrow whizzes by Brock’s face and explodes in a hallway behind him.  
The cries of men meet his ears before the rest of their group take on a formation. Brock still doesn’t know if Rollins is clean. He looks to his second in command and he grins ferociously back. They stand back to back and Jack says, “You know when I loosened his bolts, I never thought I’d actually see him again.” 

Brock lifts his rifle and takes a shot at an operative coming at them from the hallway Barton shot into, “Well at least I know I won’t have to shoot you in the back now.”

“That’d be a fuckin’ shame, wouldn’t it.” Brock can feel Jack’s back shift as he raises his own rifle to take high shots into the rafters. 

He takes a quick look to the side to watch the Avengers, Rogers in covering the Winter Soldier as he lines up his rifle to take out the other operatives. He sees two clean holes through glass as the hissing of thawing starts. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters as he and Jack duck, working together as Romanov jumps her way over them and slides to the wall, aiming straight up. 

“Come on, fellas, times a wasting,” she grins wide and rolls to another spot. 

The two men look at one another before running for cover as a flash bang goes off. Brock blinks the dust away before aiming and taking out operatives. Above him, the new guy Rogers had somehow collected, flies and shoots at the men zeroing in on Barton. “You had to say it,” Rogers yells over the melee.

“Someone had to get the party started,” Wilson calls back.

“Are they always this chatty,” Jack asks, a shell case hits Brock on the arm and bounces to the concrete floor.

“They never shut up,” Brock answers before pulling a throwing knife off of his belt. He lets it fly and it embeds itself into the throat of someone coming up behind Natasha. 

The hissing of the opening cryotanks stills after a few minutes and Brock takes a look at them. The one tank that was able to fully open has a slumped over man, the cold sluggish blue blood preservative runs from the spots on his body where the connection tubes ripped out. The other four tanks are only cracked and they all have neat holes in them.

Finally, the Winter Soldier and Rogers are in the fight and it ends quickly. Brock thinks that HYDRA forgets that the Winter Soldier and Steve Rogers are master tacticians and that all the other people with them are equally as lethal. When the sounds of gunfire stop, Brock drops the head of the man who’s neck he just snapped and stands. He dusts off his thighs and stares. The Winter Soldier and Jack stare at one another before nodding. The man moves his gaze to Brock and smirks, “How’d your friend like the prints I had to steal from my nephew’s attic?”

Brock widens his eyes, he didn’t know that they weren’t actually Rogers’ personal property, and looking at the man with the metal arm, he _knows_ that he doesn’t want to actually owe him any favors like he owes Natasha. He clears his throat, “Gave them to her after I left, her birthday is today.”

The man snorts, “Is he worse with women than Steve here?”

Natasha is rolling her lucky garrote around her fingers to put it back on her belt as she says, “You wouldn’t believe how bad he is unless I told you.”

Wilson lands next to him and claps Brock on the shoulder, “Hey, at least he has a dog to help with his image.”

Jack holsters his hand gun and cracks his neck loudly, “You know that he tripped her once? She fell down a flight of stairs.”

Rogers’ shield clinks into place, “Hey now, I have never tripped a woman.”

Brock huffs, “Seriously, we just fought off an army of HYDRA and you want to talk about,” he runs his hand through his dusty hair, “what ever the fuck is going on between her and I?”

Barton flips from his spot high above and laughs, “It’s more fun than talking about the files we need to go and extract, this place is a fucking labyrinth of tunnels.” His bow is already across his back. 

“Just hurry up, it’s cold as fuck out here,” Melinda’s ever present growl comes across the line. 

~~

The third day that Brock is away on the new mission, Darcy returns from work to find the street blocked off my barricades, cops, and two fire trucks. The police stop and ask her if she lives in the neighborhood and she tells them that she is currently staying at Brock’s place. They go back to their squad cars to check out her story and Darcy watches the heavy grey smoke fill the air. It’s the house with the older man with the small white dog. He always seemed friendly enough to Darcy, waved whenever she walked Wilbur in the neighborhood and asked how her days was going. She hoped that him and his dog were alright.

“Sorry, Ms. Lewis,” the cop says when she returns, “we have to make sure it is only residents going to and from properties.” She hands her ID back. “We were able to confirm with an Agent Hill that you have authorization to be at the property.”

Darcy narrows her eyes a little, why would they be checking with _Hill_? “Um, alright.”

The cop leans an arm against the roof of her car and nods, “Agent Rumlow helped us a few years ago, you know,” she nods, “helped bring in some smugglers down in Potomac Yard. You know, for someone who looks like he could take out an army single handedly, he cleaned up pretty nice to infiltrate the Yacht Club.”

“Oh, I know,” Darcy laughs.

“But that’s how all those rough around the edges guys are, aren’t they?” The cop sighs and moves away from the car, “We just ask that you stay on your property until this mess is cleared up. Agent Hill said she will be contacting you.”

“Thanks,” Darcy says and nods, “Do you know when it’ll be cleared?”

“Unsure, we need to get the coroner out here once we get the fire handled, so it might be quite a few hours.” The cop smiles, “Don’t order delivery, they won’t be able to get through.” She tilts her cap, “You have a good night now, Ms. Lewis.”

“Thank you, officer,” Darcy nods and shifts the car into drive when the cop moves a large traffic cone out of the way.

When Darcy finally parks and looks in the rearview mirror, the firemen are holding a water inflated hose and spraying against the brick house. It’s sidewall has crumbled and the roof has caved in from the water and flames. Walking into the house, Wilbur is not at the door or sitting on the couch waiting for her. She drops her bag and keys next to the door and slips her shoes off while calling out to Wilbur. Darcy hears a pitiful bark coming from the guest bathroom, the door is mostly closed. 

Darcy pushes the door open and looks down. Wilbur is trying to hide between the tub and toilet, but his bulk makes it so he can’t get that far between them. He at least had the foresight to pull Brock’s green bath mat under him to stay comfortable. “Oh buddy!”

She pulls her cell out of her back pocket and rests it on the vanity as she gets down onto the floor. Rubbing at Wilbur’s back, Darcy tries to help him gain the courage to come out of his hiding spot. Loud sirens trigger her too. 

When WIlbur finally comes out of the bathroom with Darcy, he leans heavily against her legs and stays close to her. She prepares his food with his heavy body sitting on her feet and he drags his bowl under the table to eat near her while she texts Jane to let her know what happened. It just doesn’t feel right. 

Her father had left the day before after giving her a stern talk about the Jack Booted Thug. Darcy had stopped him from continuing after he commented that she had been living there off and on for five months, if she wanted to admit it or not. Darcy doesn’t want to admit it, but who would Wilbur have? Her father had looked at her and said, “Darcy, he has about thirty grand worth of firearms in his house, I don’t think that dog boarding is going to be a big issue for him.”

Darcy taps at the table why Wilbur eats his food much slower than normal under her. Why would Maria Hill contact her? When was Maria Hill going to contact her? She mulls this while drinking a can of bubbly water. Halfway through it, her phone buzzes on the table. 

Without preamble, Maria Hill speaks, “You need to get his dog and leave his house quietly like you are going for a walk. Bring just your handbag, don’t pack it full, make it look natural and come to SHIELD headquarters.” 

“Did something happen?” Darcy questions as she slides her chair back. She wasn’t going to leave the prints, they could be hid in her bag easily. 

“You’ll be debriefed when you get here. Drive normally to one of the places you walk Wilbur and then circle around back to SHIELD,” Hill pauses, “Do you understand?”

“Yeah I got it.” Darcy is already grabbing Brock’s ski jacket to pull over the sweater she drove to his house in. 

“See you soon.” The line goes dead abruptly.

“What did he do, Wilbur?” Darcy asks, pocketing her phone. She pulls the jacket over her shoulders and moves to the room she’s been staying in. She grabs the wrapped prints before running to her bag and slipping them in there. Darcy puts on the boots she walks Wilbur in and grabs his leash. He comes walking sadly out of the kitchen like he knows they are leaving. He is too smart for his own good. 

“Alright, dude, we are going for a car ride, maybe we’ll get some snacks.” His tail thumps a little at the word snacks and Darcy clips his leash on. “You want a toy too? We should bring a toy.” Darcy grabs the tug of war rope at her feet and sticks it in one of the deep pockets of the coat. She turns on the porch light before stepping out, Wilbur follows her after she pulls him out. He looks warily at the commotion going on and continues to stand close to Darcy. “Yeah, bud, you’ll be better once we go for our ride.”

Darcy locks the door and she looks at the burning house one more time. It didn’t feel right. Just like the storm they drove into when they hit Thor didn’t feel right. “Let’s get out of here.” Wilbur is her co-pilot as they make their way back out of the neighborhood. The woman cop doesn’t stop them, only moves the cone and nods.


	11. Part 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot inches forward.

Then

Brock leans against the railing of the outside fourth floor emergency exit with a cigarette hanging from between his fingers. It's still grey and drizzling in England and he is done with leading a team of SHIELD agents who don't even put in their required four hours of physical training a week. He _will_ be speaking with Fury and Hill about this. The majority might be intel, but if Cameron-fucking-Klein can put in his required weekly physical training and firearms training, there is _no reason_ for these nerds not to. Brock exhales heavily and the cloud of cigarette smoke hangs heavily around his head.

There are voices loudly coming from the stairwell beyond the doors and Brock took another step back into the corner. A steady drip of water drops into his hair and he inhales deeply. The voices get louder and he can hear Thor’s voice booming from beyond the door. If Brock knew he wouldn’t get a break from Thor and his science crew, he wouldn’t have taken this assignment. The sweltering Australian Outback looks like a good choice, in hindsight at least. 

Eventually, the door is smashed open, no finesse with it. It bounces off the side of the building and he pulls himself back even further against the rail. The water drips down the side of his face now, and it slides down his neck into the collar of his shirt. Brock lets the cigarette hang between his lips. Lewis is the first out the door and she doesn’t see him. Her foot catches his crossed ankles as she makes room for the rest of their group and she tumbles towards the stairs. 

His cigarette tumbles from his lips and slips between the cracks of the fire exit. “What the…” Brock catches her by the back of her cardigan before she falls onto her face. Her hands make contact with the ground just as Dr. Foster pulls his arms away. “Don’t _touch_ her,” her voice is venomous.

“Not again,” Lewis looks over her shoulder and grimaces. 

“You’re the one who tripped over me,” Brock moves _even further_ back so Thor can fit onto the small landing. 

Her light eyes narrow and Barnaby crouches down to help her, “Up you go,” he says cheerfully. 

She wipes her hands on the front of her jeans and Dr. Foster wraps an arm around her before glaring and walking her down the fire escape. The _other_ intern looks at him and says, “Thanks for helping, mate,” before nodding and following the women.

Thor is looking at him curiously and Brock can’t hold back the exhausted, “What?” that slips out.

Thor shakes his head and claps him on the shoulder and says, “You’ll both figure it out,” and makes his way down the metal stairs.

When the rowdy group make it down the four flights of rusted stairs, Brock already has another cigarette lit. He hears a loud, “Fuck you, buddy.” He lifts his hand and unconsciously gives her the finger. If he did look down, he knows, _he knows_ , he’ll see her with both of her fingers up. 

Thor’s voice booms, “She does not mean this.”

“Yes I do,” she shouts.

“Yes she does,” Dr. Foster confirms.

He doesn’t drop his middle finger until they round the corner of the building. His cigarette is half smoked with two more drags and as he pulls it away from his lips, Brock stares at the red smoldering end. Twisting his lips, he is disgusted with himself, why should he let this assignment stoop so low to take up smoking again. The cigarette is stubbed out on the thin railing, hissing when it touches the rain droplets. Thankfully, he has moved far enough from the persistent drip that he can dab the puddle at his collar bone to soak it up. “Fuck,” his body turns and Brock flicks the cigarette out to drop to the ground. With his arms crossed, he leans on the metal rail and stares at the grey sky. He can’t wait for this assignment to finish and the storm that is slowly making the rain fall heavier seems like an omen.

Then

Darcy looks at the screen and _hmms_. She maneuvers between commands and digs deeper into the hole she has fallen into. "Huh," she cocks her head to the side and squints at it, speed reading the words that are being spit onto the screen. "Well, isn't that interesting," she mutters to herself. 

Her fingers fly across the screen and enter a few more commands before falling deeper. The words don't blur like they usually do at this point of her information seeking. They are sharp, clear and stick, where in the past, something like this would just be pushed to the side for new information as it became available. Maybe it is because of the information that spews across the screen. It is the kind of information that maybe she should tell Coulson about. But maybe not? How could they not know that a Commander was a HYDRA agent?

"Hmm," she backs out of the hidden file under four other hidden files to slip into another backdoor in SHIELD's mainframe.

"If you _hmm_ one more time," Jane says from behind her own computer, "I might have to go over there and stop whatever unethical thing you are doing to SHIELD."

Darcy looks away from the screen for a second and rolls her eyes dramatically. "Why do you think I'm doing something _unethical_ , Jane?"

The printer across the room whirs to life and Jane pushes her chair out, "You ran into your favorite Commander today and you haven't complained once since sitting behind your _special_ computer." Jane's feet are heavy and slap on the tile, "You _only_ pull out that computer when nefarious deeds need to be done."

Darcy rolls her eyes again, "Whatever Jane." Her hands fly through commands again. 

"Just don't get caught, please, you're the only person that's ever worked for me that gives a crap about my science," Jane gathers the printed paper and drops the pages to straighten the edges, "And don't let him get to you, he isn't worth it."

"Meh," Darcy looks at the list of completed ops for HYDRA in front of her. Some of these were high profile assassinations that still weren't solved. "He's never gotten to me."

Jane makes a buzzing noise as she sits back in her chair, "Lie, try again."

Darcy scrolls quickly and stares at all of the dates. She had _studied_ some of the repercussions these assassinations had on world politics. "Go back to your science, I just want to get some dirt on him." Darcy backs out of that file and clicks through a surveillance folder. They were newer photos, Darcy could tell. He has tattoos in them that he didn't have when they first met. 

From there, she spirals until Jane opens a can of iced tea next to her ear. Darcy startles and looks at her boss/friend/life mate. "What the…" She turns her head and stares at Jane. The windows behind the thin woman are inky black and a dotting of street lights can be seen below. 

"I hate that guy," Jane points to the photo of a smiling Alexander Pierce behind a podium.

"Yeah, uh and he's way worse than anything you could have imagined," Darcy clicks through a few photos and gets to the grisly ones of Senator Pierce observing the 'training' of HYDRA recruits. There's a few grainy CCTV photos of Pierce watching someone do wet work next to him. "It only gets worse from here."

"Glad I didn't vote for that guy," Jane takes a deep drink of her tea, "Did you find anything good?"

Darcy shakes her head, "Jane, this right here," she points to the screen, "I need to talk to Coulson about this." 

"Wait, really?" Jane's eyebrows lift high into her hairline.

"I probably should try to talk to Fury." Darcy shivers, "I feel dirty after looking through all of this...and I haven't even breached the surface."

Jane settles against the old metal desk. "What do you mean?" Her face moves from curious to concerned quickly.

"You remember when an Alien God dropped from the sky and then he fought a giant robot?" Jane nods, of course she remembers. "Well this right here," Darcy points emphatically, "this is buried deep, Marianas Trench deep in SHIELD's files."

"Really?" Jane leans in closer to look at the string of commands behind the photos.

"Like we should probably look for a new place to work, because I'm not sure if I'll be able to cover all of my tracks." Darcy grimaces. "I'm good, really good at this, but, Jane, this is seventh level of hell stuff."

Jane takes another deliberate slow drink of her drink before placing it on the desk. She levels a steady look at Darcy and nods. "I guess we are in luck," Jane doesn't look joyful, "The VLA and Aricebo have finally relented and have granted us limited access." She nods at Darcy, "We can stop and talk with Coulson on the way." She puts a hand on Darcy's shoulder, "Your pick, New Mexico or Puerto Rico? I'm sick of the grey skies here." Because Jane _isn’t_ oblivious she asks, “Do we need to take a drive and dump the computer?”

Her face is uncharacteristically somber, “We need to back up all of your research on _our_ hard drives and then I need to delete it out of here,” she points to the screen, the cursor blinks. “We should maybe send Tony Stark a copy of your research,” Darcy swallows heavily, “Just in case.”

“And then delete and dump?” Jane is still and her eyes are wide.

“And then get the hell out of here,” Darcy turns back to the screen and her hands start digging further into the files, “You start the back up, and...I’ll… I’m just going to continue until you’re done.”

Jane’s small hand is on her shoulder, gripping it hard, “I’ll e-mail Aricebo and start the backup.”

NOW

Brock looks at James “Bucky” Barnes and shakes his head, “You did what?”

“Did you want him to continue spying on your, what are they calling it these days,” he snaps his fingers, “...dog sitter, any longer?” The man’s metal arm is squeezing one of the stress balls Jack had thrown at them when they finally arrived in D.C. for debrief. 

“You didn’t kill the dog, did you?” Brock sighs. “Because that’s fucked up, killing a dog.”

Barnes throws the ball at Brock and he catches it before it smacks him in the face. “I’m not a _monster_.” He chews a piece of Natasha’s gum before blowing a large, pink bubble. “I dropped it off at a shelter,” he rolls his eyes before folding his arms up and resting them behind his neck.

“You know,” Natasha pops her own bubble and looks at Brock, “for someone that does wet-work you have some really wholesome morals.” 

He throws the ball at Natasha and Clint’s hand grabs it before it hits her, “At least I have morals,” he says pithily. He watches as Natasha raises one eyebrow slowly, the room goes quiet around them.

Brock leans back in the leather chair and stares at the mish-mash of people in the conference room. The only one from the mission not in the room is Melinda. She jumped from the jet somewhere around Iceland with a parachute to meet up with Coulson’s team. How did he end up in this situation. How the fuck had Barnes found time to clandestinely make it to his neighborhood, take out another HYDRA Operative and set the house on fire to make it not look like arson, drop a dog off to the pound, and settle into SHIELD like he belonged there. 

This is the man whose brain he helped wipe. He stuck the mouth guard in his mouth and strapped his arms down before giving the controller the _ok_ to start the wiping process. Brock has done some really terrible things, but watching an assassin be mind wiped after a supposedly sanctioned SHIELD operation was in the top two. Letting SHIELD/HYDRA use a _teenager_ who could _walk through walls_ is the other. They were no better than the Red Room when it came to Ava Starr.

The room continues to sit in silence until the door behind him opens out. The air shifts slightly and all eyes on the opposite side of the table shift in tandem to look at the newcomer.

“Uh, why the fuck is Bucky Barnes sitting here...?” Wilbur’s tags jingle as he pulls at his leash to get to Brock. Barnes looks from the phone in his hands to behind Brock and falls out of his chair that he has kicked back on two wheels at her abrupt question. “You know what?” She shrugs her shoulders and drops Wilbur’s leash. He jumps onto Brock’s thighs as Darcy finishes, “You don’t have to answer that, this isn’t the craziest thing that has ever happened to me I’m going to roll with it.”

Natasha drops her feet from the edge of the table before kicking a rolling chair out for Darcy across from her and between Sam and Sharon. "He's going to be your security." 

"Say what?" Darcy continues to stand in the doorway and stares at the woman. "His picture is downlow on Interpol's most wanted list, you know that right?" She pushes back the fur lined hood of the jacket.

"And why do you know that?" Natasha asks back. 

Darcy finally moves towards the chair as Bucky Barnes peeks over the table at her, half of his face hides under the table. "I have a lot of free time and Interpol's firewalls are shit?" She pulls the edge of Brock's large ski jacket up and sits down, "I mean," she laughs, "the only people not on the most wanted list in this room are Sharon and myself."

"You know if Coulson finds out you're hacking government agencies again he might try to recruit you seriously this time." Sharon replies as she looks down at her phone and taps away at it. "No half ass attempts and low ball wage offers."

"Ninety grand was a low ball wage offer?" Darcy sighs and leans back in the leather chair.

"She was offered ninety grand?" Sam looks at Steve, Brock just raises his eyebrow at the wage. It's not bad for an entry level wage at SHIELD for someone with her skills. "I wasn't offered anything."

Natasha thumps her boot back onto the table and leans back. "You don't work for SHIELD," Natasha reminds him, popping another bubble loudly.

"I'm sure we can work something out." Steve claps his friend on the shoulder and Brock sighs while patting Wilbur heavily on the back.

Through this, Brock noticed that Bucky finally climbed back into his chair after Steve had pulled him up by the collar. The man is currently staring at Darcy with narrowed eyes. Darcy has her phone in hand and is no doubt texting Jane, Brock can see the special starry night background on the text screen. "I don't need security," she settles on.

"After this moron lit Brock's neighbor's house on fire," Natasha slaps Bucky upside the head, "SHIELD begs to differ. Would you like to know why?"

Darcy looks up at Natasha before meeting Brock's eyes. She sighs heavily and drops her phone on the table. "I _know_ why," she points at Brock, "You don't think I didn't do some digging on him after I caught him following Jane and I around New Mexico? Or London? Or after Ian told me that he was being singled out at the London office after we left?" Darcy leans back in her chair as far back as it goes and crosses her arms across her chest. She still hasn't taken off his thick ski jacket. "Everyone of you underestimates me," Darcy laughs, "you don't think I didn't know he was a sleeper HYDRA agent? Which," Brock's eyes are wide with shock, "kudos for not continuing on as an active agent unlike Jack over there." She points to the man next to Sam and he stops mid bite from his burrito.

"So I'm sure HYDRA wanted to keep an eye on Brock with someone in his neighborhood and I knew the risks and still decided to...get entangled in whatever the fuck has happened." Darcy snaps her fingers a few times and Wilbur pushes his way around everyone's knees to get to her. "Plus, I'm a sucker for a cute dog."

Jack clears his throat, "I'd like it to be known that I'm a triple agent," he puts his burrito down on the napkin he spread out, "I've always been loyal to Fury."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long long delay on this chapter. I've had a ton of stuff going on in my personal life. I've made a giant move across the country, had a crap load of chronic medical stuff flare up, and general C-19 anxiety. I think I have broke the writers block.

**Author's Note:**

> The chapter count should be steady now at 15. (hopefully)


End file.
